by Maureen Ash
“You may not have been privy to it, Father, but his family surely was.”
The old man lifted his rheumy eyes to Bascot. “Oh no, my lord. They were not. Of that I am certain.”
Bascot got down from his horse and went up to the elderly priest. “Father, your duty to God binds you to see the good in men. Yet where there is good, there can also be evil. Believe me when I say that Edward was not the only man of this village to consort with the outlaws, even if the others did so unwillingly. I will have the truth from them, and if I do not, I will let the sheriff extract it by force.”
Samson’s mouth fell open at Bascot’s words, then he clamped it shut along with his eyes and mumbled a prayer under his breath, fingering the plain wooden cross that hung from a leather thong around his neck. “May God forgive them if you speak true, Sir Bascot. And me also, for I have failed in my duty as shepherd of this small flock.”
“Bring all the men into the church, Father, and the milkmaid, Bettina,” Bascot said kindly to the distressed priest. “And there you and I will together hope that your errant parishioners will finally give truthful answers to my questions.”
Twenty-seven
LATE THAT NIGHT, ERNULF, ROGET AND BASCOT WERE sitting in Ernulf’s quarters in the barracks, sharing a jug of wine and the warmth of a glowing brazier. At intervals, as they replenished their cups, Ernulf took a short poker from where it rested amidst the red-hot embers of the brazier and plunged its tip into the wine. The sizzling sound and smell enhanced the taste.
Outside it was cold, with an icy rain falling that was mixed with snow. In a corner Gianni sat, alongside another, smaller, brazier, wrapped in an old blanket and with Ernulf’s cap pulled firmly down around his ears. He was dozing lightly.
Bascot regarded him with affection and felt a renewal of the relief he had felt when he had hauled the boy up onto his horse in the middle of the river. He was now reluctant to let the lad out of his sight, even if it was only to a pallet outside Ernulf’s chamber in the larger common room of the barracks.
“So, mon ami,” Roget said, the brass rings that were threaded through his beard throwing off sparks of light as the movement of his lips set them dancing, “are you going to tell us what you have discovered?”
“It was what Gianni discovered, really, Roget,” Bascot replied. “If he had come to me about what he had overheard in the hall instead of trying to play the hero himself, we would have been spared our trudge through the forest to rescue him.”
“True,” the former mercenary replied, “but then we would not have captured all those brigands, my friend. That alone made the effort worthwhile. Although,” he added, with a glance towards the sleeping figure of Gianni, “I would as lief the boy had not been put into such danger.”
“Nor I,” Ernulf agreed, refilling his cup, then raising it to the captain. “This is a good vintage, Roget,” he said. “I thank you for it.”
“Ha! Enjoy it well. That is the last jug from my store. I do not know how soon I can get more.” The captain made a mock expression of such ruefulness that Bascot burst out laughing.
“He was tumbling a wine merchant’s daughter,” Ernulf explained to the Templar. “The father gave him a dozen jugs of this”—he raised the cup high—“for a promise to leave the girl alone.”
“I was tiring of her in any case,” Roget commented, shaking his head. “I never like to spend too long with one woman. They get ideas that are dangerous.”
Ernulf leaned towards Bascot. “But tell us, what was it Gianni overheard, and what did you find out in the village?”
Both the sergeant and Roget listened silently as Bascot told them his tale. Then Ernulf refilled all their wine cups and said, “So you have discovered who murdered Hubert and the charcoal burner and his sons.”
“Yes,” Bascot agreed. “But I cannot prove it.”
“Ma foi, does it matter?” Roget asked. “The sheriff will not care for such a nicety.”
Bascot shook his head, but it was Ernulf who answered Roget’s question. “The sheriff may not, but the king will.”
“The king?” Roget protested. “Why should it worry him? The boy was of no importance, not to King John anyway, and I do not think that our new monarch will care overmuch about the fate of Chard and his family.”
“You are right, Roget,” Bascot replied, “but he will care about the rumour of treason. Proof of the motive for Hubert’s murder, and of who committed it, must be given to him.”
“Have you thought of a way to get such proof?” Ernulf asked.
“I think so,” Bascot said. “I have discussed the matter with Lady Nicolaa, who has, by the way, discovered another, and separate, transgression against the king’s justice. We have devised a plan, which, if it succeeds, will bring all these matters to light in front of witnesses and thus resolve them. She has instructed me to explain your part in the ruse we propose to play.”
Roget chuckled deep in his beard and Ernulf grinned. “Just tell us what it is that we are to do, de Marins,” the serjeant said. “We both have much relish to hear of it.”
IT WAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THAT MELISANDE Fleming received a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to attend a meeting at the sheriff’s hunting lodge for a discussion of the preparations necessary for a hunt planned for the king during his stay in Lincoln. Melisande was in her gold manufactory when the messenger arrived. The workshop was housed in a building adjacent to her house on Mikelgate, and she always enjoyed being in its confines. The sight of the master goldsmith at work on his small anvil, his tiny hammer and tongs stretching and tapping the gleaming yellow metal, always soothed her, and she often herself performed the task of polishing a finished piece with the fine soft fur of a rabbit’s foot.
It had been decided by the goldsmith’s guild that King John would be presented with three gifts from the workshops of Lincoln. Melisande’s manufactory had been allotted the making of a hanap—a large cup—which was to have a cover and footed base and be encased in a wooden box inlaid with silver decoration. The cup was now finished, and Melisande was holding it in her hands, admiring the workmanship of her staff when the messenger came to the door.
The goldsmith’s widow was annoyed at Nicolaa’s request. She knew that John was now at Southwell, having travelled there from Nottingham, a distance of fourteen miles, the previous day. From Southwell he would come the final twenty-three miles to Lincoln and was expected to arrive the following afternoon. She had intended to spend the day preparing for the monarch’s arrival at the castle. There was much to do; the hanap and box must be enclosed in a bag of soft velvet for its presentation, there was her gown to inspect and the choosing of the jewellery she would wear and, most vexing of all, she still had the rebellion of Joanna to contend with.
Impatiently, she threw the short note from Nicolaa onto the floor. She would have to go, like it or not. Even though she held the office of chief forester and, as such, received her salary directly from the crown, it would be unwise to irritate the castellan by a refusal. Nicolaa was well thought of by King John and any commissions the goldsmiths of Lincoln hoped to receive from him could easily be withdrawn if she chose not to recommend them. Angrily Melisande called for one of her servants to saddle the palfrey she kept in a stable behind the house, and for another to bring her a warm cloak. Before reluctantly leaving the manufactory, she sent an urgent message to Copley instructing him to attend her at the lodge for her meeting with Lady Nicolaa. Still in a fury, she left the warm glow of the manufactory’s small furnace and, with a groom to accompany her, rode towards the western gate of the city.
IN THE CHAMBER THAT HAD BEEN ALLOTTED TO BALDWIN high in the top of the keep, Alys and Alinor kept the sick boy company. His excitement at the imminent arrival of the king had brought on another of his spells of breathlessness and the castle physician had recommended he rest until it should be time for him to be presented.
“I must be well enough to see King John, Alys, I must,” he said tremulously as she held o
ut a cup of heated wine for him to sip.
“If you don’t stop fretting, little brother, you most assuredly will not be,” his sister said tartly.
“I have sent Osbert for his lute,” Alys told him. “He plays passably well and a little soft music may soothe you and allow you to rest. Now come, lie back and drink your wine. It has a generous dollop of honey in it.”
Baldwin, his face flushed from his recent exertions of struggling for breath, did as he was told and, when Osbert arrived, was lying comfortably and breathing easier.
The page took a seat in the far corner of the room and strummed his instrument quietly. His young fingers were nimble on the strings and his high clear voice carried gently to where Baldwin lay as he sang the opening lines of a ballad about two young lovers travelling together on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Soon Baldwin was asleep and Alinor motioned to Alys that she would leave her brother in her friend’s care, and quietly left the room.
Outside she tripped lightly down the circular stone steps to the hall, looking for Alain and Renault. They were receiving instructions from the Haye steward, Eudo, along with Hugo and a few other squires and pages, on the correct etiquette to be observed when it came their turn to serve at King John’s table. Alinor waited with little patience until Eudo finished his lecture, and then called urgently to the pair to join her in a corner of the hall. Hugo came trailing a few steps behind.
“I think something is afoot to do with Hubert’s murder,” she said to them conspiratorially. “I heard my aunt say that she would be going to my uncle’s hunting lodge later today and that she intended to take Ernulf and some men-at-arms with her.”
The two squires looked at her in bafflement. “Why should you believe that any such excursion would be concerned with who killed Hubert?” Renault asked.
“It is only a feeling I have,” Alinor admitted, “perhaps because earlier the Templar went to speak to my aunt privately. He was in her chamber for a long time and when he came out she sent a servant to fetch my father and Uncle William.”
“I still don’t see why you think these conversations, or Lady Nicolaa going into the forest with a guard, should have anything to do with who killed Hubert,” Renault objected.
“It was something my father said when he came from seeing my aunt,” Alinor confessed.
“And what was that?” Alain asked.
“That he hoped I had learned the folly of meddling in affairs of which I knew nothing,” Alinor replied, a frown creasing her brows. “He said the next time I was tempted to eavesdrop on a conversation, I would be well-advised to stop up my ears with my fingers. He was very angry.”
As she was saying this, Osbert appeared, carrying his lute. “Your brother is sleeping soundly, Alinor,” he said. “Alys will stay with him until he wakes.”
Alinor nodded absently and Osbert asked what was troubling her. When Alain, in a scoffing manner, told him what she had said, Osbert shook his head.
“She may not be wrong,” the page remarked gravely. “I, too, saw the Templar go into Lady Nicolaa’s chamber. He looked even more determined than usual. Perhaps he has found some new trace of who killed Hubert.”
Hugo had been listening to the conversation with growing agitation. “Oh, Alain,” he burst out, “it wasn’t you who murdered him, was it?”
Alain looked at his cousin in surprise, then reached out a hand and ruffled the boy’s close-cropped hair. “Of course not, you donkey. I told you, I did not find Hubert that night. And even if I had, I had no intention of killing him. I was only going to give him a good thrashing.”
Alinor looked round at them all. “This murder has set us all one against another with suspicion and distrust. It seems as though Hubert, even after death, still possesses the ability to cause us as much distress as he did when alive. How amused he would be if he could see us now.”
IN THE VILLAGE AT THE EDGE OF THE SHERIFF’S CHASE, the inhabitants were all gathered in the church. Alwin, the reeve, and his son, Leofric, stood at the head of them, listening intently as Father Samson finished serving Mass and turned to speak to them. The feeling of grief was strong. Edward had been foolish, but he was one of their own. At the back of the tiny church, the women stood sniffling with tears, all except Bettina. Her face was unnaturally white and her hands were clenched in front of her. She mourned her cousin’s death, but was frightened of what was to come.
“You must all do exactly as Sir Bascot has instructed,” Samson was saying. “If you do, he has promised to speak to the sheriff on your behalf. If you do not, neither he nor I can help you.” The old priest’s face was sad. He had failed his parishioners. If they had only trusted him enough to come and tell him what was happening, Edward and the murdered squire might still be alive. He raised his hand in a benediction. “Those of you who are involved in the Templar’s plan must go now. The rest of us will stay here and pray for you.”
Bettina, Edwin and Leofric left the hall and, as they did so, a collective sigh rose from the rest of the villagers, bolstered by a great sob from Edwin’s wife. Then they all bent their heads in prayer as Father Samson began to intone a Pater Noster.
Twenty-eight
MELISANDE ARRIVED AT THE HUNTING LODGE JUST past the midday hour. Copley met her on the track that approached the building with three of the bowmen that worked under him, and was standing respectfully beside his horse as his mistress approached.
Copley looked nervous. He had fortified himself with a small measure of wine when he had received Melisande’s message, but had dared take no more for fear of a reprimand from his cousin. “Good morrow, mistress,” he greeted Melisande obsequiously. “I believe Lady Nicolaa is already within the lodge. There are horses outside.”
Melisande dismounted impatiently. “I have eyes to see, Copley,” she said brusquely. “Let us go in and find out what it is that Lady Nicolaa wants of me. If King John is to have a hunt on Camville land, I cannot see how I am involved, but if my assistance is needed I would prefer to deal with it quickly. I have much to do before the king arrives.”
Inside the lodge, Nicolaa sat on the chair used by her husband when he stayed at the lodge. It was of oak, with broad comfortable arms and a padded seat. Beside her, her son, Richard, who had been standing at the entrance to the lodge, was now sprawled on a bench and, at her back, stood Ernulf and two of his men-at-arms. In a corner of the large chamber, Tostig, Eadric and a couple of the Camville huntsmen waited and watched as a pair of servants from the castle set wine and cups on a table. In the hearth a fire blazed. As Nicolaa waited for the goldsmith’s widow she ran an examining eye over the preparations made for the king in case he should decide to indulge in a foray after deer or boar during his stay in Lincoln.
The lodge was a capacious structure, built of timber, with a cavernous fireplace on one side and an ample scattering of rugs made from wolf hides on the floor. In one corner was a space concealed by a curtain that was fitted with a comfortable mattress and blankets. Although this was for Gerard’s convenience, it had been freshly made with washed linen and a newly covered bolster, in expectant readiness for the king.
Other preparations had also been made. Bottles of wine lay in caskets filled with straw alongside an assortment of cheeses, including the soft white one that John preferred. There were piles of linen napkins and small sealed earthenware jars of fruit preserves and pots of honey. Nicolaa was well aware of her monarch’s penchant for sweetmeats.
On the walls hung coils of rope, snaring nets and leather cases filled with arrows. Wooden chests filled with leather harnesses, fletching knives and candles were set against the walls and near the bed-space straw sleeping pallets for the king’s servants were neatly piled.
The noise of arriving horses distracted Nicolaa from her mental inventory and she looked towards the door as the goldsmith’s widow entered.
“Greetings, Mistress Fleming,” she said in an even tone. “It is a cold day outside. Shed your cloak and have a cup of wine to warm you.”
&n
bsp; Melisande nodded her acceptance and came forward to sit on a settle placed near the fire, handing her cloak to the servant who proffered her the wine, looking about her as she did so.
“You come well escorted today, lady, for just a parlay about planning the king’s hunt,” she said to Nicolaa.
“My son thought it wise, with so many recent trespasses by outlaws into our chase, to have me protected by my serjeant and his men as well as his own sword.”
Melisande looked at Richard. He was regarding her with what seemed like amusement, the red Haye hair glinting in the light from the fire as he lifted his wine cup to his lips and drank. “Did you have no fear for your own safety, Mistress Fleming, to come with only a groom into the forest?” he asked languidly.
Melisande flicked a glance at her agister. Copley was nervous, licking his lips and staring longingly at the wine cups laid out on the table. “I knew my agister would meet me along the way,” Melisande replied. “And I was in a hurry.”
She felt as though the sheriff’s son was baiting her and decided to try to take control of the conversation. “Although I do not understand the reason for this meeting, lady,” she said, addressing Nicolaa. “If a hunt is planned for the king in your husband’s chase, there is not likely to be much infringement into the part of the woodland that my deputy patrols.”
Nicolaa rose from her chair and walked slowly to where Melisande sat. Her short, plump figure seemed dowdily dressed beside the rich finery of the other woman, but her stance, and the calmness of her face beneath the plain white coif, would have given any observer not familiar with her status no doubt that she had authority, and knew how to use it.
“It has come to my notice that there is more infringement, as you call it, in the forest than is at first apparent,” she said.