by Maureen Ash
Melisande’s head came up. She regarded the castellan with an intense stare. “What do you mean, lady?” she asked.
“I mean, Mistress Fleming, that serious crimes have been discovered. Crimes committed against the very warrant that you are sworn to uphold.”
Melisande stood, placing her wine cup on the settle as she did so. “Are you accusing me of dereliction in carrying out the duties of my office, Lady Nicolaa? If so, I would know the charges, and then will answer for them to the chief justice at the forest eyre court, not to you.”
“Sit down, mistress,” Nicolaa commanded abruptly. “You will listen to me, and listen well. If you do not, you will be taken back to Lincoln and held confined until the king arrives. On the authority of my husband, the sheriff.” To reinforce her threat, Nicolaa withdrew from the pouch at her belt a small rolled parchment, from which a seal dangled. On it, the imprint of the Camville emblem of two lions passant could clearly be seen.
Shocked by the sight of the warrant, Melisande did as she was bid, reseating herself unsteadily on the settle. Nicolaa turned away and walked back to her chair. There she turned, and said, “My bailiff has conferred with the regarder for the royal chase over which you hold your post as chief forester. Also, an inspection has been made of the statement of revenues for the area. It would appear that these incomes have not been truthfully reported.”
“I have no knowledge of such—” Melisande began.
“Be quiet, mistress, and do as my mother has bid you. Listen.” Richard’s words cut effectively through what she had been about to say and, with an effort, Melisande swallowed her protest.
“As I said, Mistress Fleming,” Nicolaa continued, “the statement of revenues—which you submitted—is not a true one. For example, they do not include the income from the deforestation of two fine stands of oak, the timber from which was sold, purportedly on behalf of the king. It also seems the fees collected for pasture and pannage have been grossly understated, as have those the peasants pay for the right of estover so they can gather wood.” Nicolaa sat down in her chair and motioned for a servant to refill her wine cup before she continued. “How do you explain these irregularities, mistress?”
Melisande’s face was ashen. Her hands, of which she was so vain, were clenched together with such intensity that the knuckles were like raw red spots against the whiteness of the tendons. She made no response.
“You cannot, can you?” Nicolaa said quietly. “Yet you are pledged to preserve the rights of the king in the venison and vert of his forest, not abuse them.”
Nicolaa made a signal to Ernulf and the men-at-arms came to stand beside Copley and the other woodsmen in Melisande’s employ, all of whom had begun to shuffle uncomfortably towards the door.
“Well, mistress?” Nicolaa prompted. “Have you no answer to these charges?”
Melisande sat silent, only the shaking of her head in a small tight gesture indicated that she had heard.
“There is another matter, as well, Mistress Fleming,” Richard Camville said. Slowly Melisande looked up, eyes glazed with fear.
“What is that, my lord?” she asked in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.
“The death of my uncle’s squire, Hubert de Tournay.”
“No!” The denial shot from Melisande’s mouth with vehemence. “Of that I know nothing, I swear. Why would I have had any hand in his death? I did not even know of his existence until the townspeople began talking of his murder.”
Richard’s response was quick and harsh. “It is believed he was killed by outlaws, poachers in my father’s chase. And you, mistress, have consort with outlaws, do you not?”
Melisande’s face, through her fear, began to blaze with anger. “I know nothing of these matters. Nor do I have brigands in my household.”
“Not in your household, perhaps,” Nicolaa said, “but most certainly on the roll of those you pay to assist you in committing your crimes against the crown.”
“It is a lie,” Melisande burst out. “I tell you, I know nothing of this.”
Richard spoke quietly into the widow’s outburst. “It seems strange that you do not, when your agister most certainly does.”
He looked expectantly at Copley, who was visibly trembling. “You have an arrangement with the outlaws in Sherwood, don’t you, Copley? For a few of the king’s deer you trade with brigands for loot they gain from preying on honest travellers through the forest. And Hubert de Tournay found out about your arrangements, didn’t he? He was an unlikeable little turd, but he had a gift for ferreting out secrets. And he found out yours and threatened to report you unless you gave him what he wanted. What did he ask for—one of the village girls for his bed, perhaps, or maybe a piece of jewellery from your mistress’s wares?”
Copley was shaking his head violently from side to side in negation as Richard relentlessly continued, “But you couldn’t take the chance that the squire would betray you, so you killed him. You are often in the forest; it would be an easy matter for you to lure Hubert there by the promise of payment for his demands and then, with the help of a couple of your outlaw cohorts, take him by surprise and string him up from the oak. But you didn’t expect there would be such a hue and cry after the murderer, did you? Or that the Templar would be set on your trail. When Sir Bascot started to come too close to the truth of the matter you decided a scapegoat was needed, so you provided us with one—Fulcher.”
Richard leaned forward now, his resemblance to his father apparent as anger hardened his jaw. “You are the confidant of brigands, Copley. We have witnesses to that fact. It was a simple matter to get one of his own kind to betray Fulcher, and that is how you came to be so fortuitously on hand to capture him. And why you brought him so joyfully to my father—so that we would be led away from discovering the identity of the real murderer of Hubert de Tournay—and that murderer is you, Copley.”
The agister’s face was ashen by the time Richard Camville had finished speaking. Falling to his knees before the sheriff’s son, he sobbed as he proclaimed his innocence. “No, no, my lord, I swear by all that is holy that I had nothing to do with the death of the squire,” he said earnestly. “As God is my witness, Sir Richard, I am innocent of murder.”
Nicolaa rose from her chair, her gaze flicking with disgust over the man cowering at her son’s feet and the stricken expression on the face of Melisande. She called to Ernulf. “Take Mistress Fleming and her deputy to Lincoln. And their bowmen as well. Tostig will aid in the escort with our own woodsmen.”
ON A SMALL SLOPE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL ON which Lincoln castle stood, Bascot met with the three villagers. “You are clear in what you are to do?” he asked. “Remember that your own reprieve from punishment depends on carrying this task out well.”
“Yes, my lord, we know. We will do it,” Bettina replied and looked to her uncle and cousin. They nodded in turn.
“Then follow me into the bail and we will wait there,” Bascot said.
WHEN NICOLAA AND RICHARD ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE gate with their prisoners firmly under guard, the bailey was crowded. The news of the arrest of the chief forester and her deputy had flown ahead like wildfire and not only were Gerard Camville and his brother on hand to meet them with their retinues, but most of the castle staff as well, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, surveyed the scene from the steps that led up to the new keep. A little distance into the crowd was Joanna Fleming, brought to the castle ward just moments before by Roget, who, following Nicolaa de la Haye’s direction, had not only escorted her from her home, but was keeping her under close surveillance. She watched the little cavalcade enter the bail with anxious eyes, glancing up at the mercenary captain from time to time with fear on her face. Bascot, clad in mail and his Templar surcoat, waited a small distance from the gate, ensuring that he could keep Gianni, safe in the shelter of the door to the barracks, within his view.
The sky was beginning to darken as evening approached and, although the sleety rain had ceased to fall,
it was still very cold, with the occasional tiny flake of snow drifting down on the waiting throng. But no one seemed to heed the discomfort of the weather, for the gaze of all gathered there was concentrated on catching sight of Melisande and her agister being brought into custody.
As Richard led his mother in through the gate, Bettina, standing just inside its arch with her relatives beside her, stepped forward and sketched a brief curtsey.
“Lady Nicolaa,” she said in a voice that was hesitant, “may I have speech with you?”
Nicolaa looked down on the milkmaid, and checked her horse. “Can it not wait, girl? As you can see, I have much to attend to.”
“It is important, my lady, and cannot be delayed.”
Nicolaa gave her a brief nod. “Get on with it then,” she said.
Bettina raised up her courage and spoke clearly. “It is said you have taken Mistress Fleming and her agister in charge for murdering Sir William’s squire, but it is not so, my lady. They did not do it.”
A stirring of voices rumbled through the crowd, ending in a sigh as they all fell silent to hear what came next.
“How do you know this, Bettina?” Nicolaa asked.
“Because all of us in the village know who it was that murdered the squire, and it was not the goldsmith’s widow or her deputy.”
Bettina’s voice had begun to weaken, but it grew stronger as she caught Lady Nicolaa’s glance. Awareness that the castellan knew what she had been primed to say gave her the temerity to continue. “The man who committed the murder told us to stay within the compound and not go out into the forest while he dealt with the squire. And he told the Chards to do the same.”
“Why did John Chard, and you, not give this evidence when asked by my husband and Sir Bascot?” Lady Nicolaa asked, her voice stern.
“We were frightened, my lady. We had been ordered not to speak of what we knew. Then, when the charcoal burner and his family were killed, all of us in the village thought it right to be fearful, and so we did not speak for dread of our own deaths.”
Nicolaa leaned down in the saddle, but her voice still carried out over the crowd. “Then why have you come forward now?”
“Because our priest, Father Samson, found out our secret and said that if we did not tell of it, we would be committing a sin, a grievous sin, by letting innocent people be charged with a crime they did not commit.”
Nicolaa looked out over the crowd. They stood with bated breath, avid for more revelations concerning the murder of Hubert de Tournay. At the back of the group of prisoners behind her she could hear a stir of feet as Ernulf positioned his men across the open gate. There was in the air a taint of apprehension, and, from Melisande Fleming, an audible gasp of hope.
Nicolaa regarded the milkmaid, admiring the girl’s courage. Behind Bettina her kinsmen stood with uncertain looks on their faces, glancing apprehensively at the soldiers around them, but they kept resolutely to their places.
Finally Nicolaa spoke. “Then, Bettina, you had best tell me who it was that murdered Hubert de Tournay.”
Bettina swept her gaze slowly over all the company assembled there, taking her time, as she had been told to do, so that there should be no mistake as to the identity of the man she pointed out. Passing over the barons and squires gathered on the edge of the crowd she finally turned toward the line of men behind Nicolaa and Richard. Holding up her hand, she raised a forefinger and pointed it in steady accusation. “It was him. Sir Gerard’s forester, Tostig.”
As she called out his name, Tostig kicked his heels viciously into the sides of his mount so that it bolted and shot free of the press of prisoners and men-at-arms that surrounded him. With a curse, the forester drew the wicked blade of his hunting knife from his belt, and swerved the horse straight at Bascot.
The animal, wild-eyed and snorting, thundered across the bail. Bascot was well aware that the only chance a man on foot had to escape the flying hooves of an adversary’s mount was to wait until the last possible moment before stepping aside. If he could do that, others would bring the woodsman down. Murmuring a prayer, Bascot kept still, bracing himself to wait, focussing the vision in his sighted eye so completely on the hurtling animal that the people, the bailey, and even the sky, faded from his perception.
Just as it seemed that he could allow the iron-shod hooves to come no closer, a darkness, like a sudden cloud, flew between Bascot and the horse. Renault, who had been standing within the fringe of people closest to Bascot, had swirled the loosely draped cloak he had been wearing up into the air and over the horse’s head. The animal, already frightened, reared in alarm, sliding on its hind legs as it tried to stem its headlong flight. With an equine squeal, it lost balance, toppling over as Tostig frantically pulled on the reins in a futile attempt to control his mount. With a crash, and a pitiful whinny from the horse, it fell, pinning Tostig underneath.
For one brief moment there was silence, then Renault leaped forward and snatched up the knife that had fallen from Tostig’s hand. Breathing heavily, the horse shook its head free of the cloth that had blinded it and struggled to its feet. With quivering legs, it stood for a space before trotting away, head tossing and tail swishing.
Tostig lay still on the ground, his legs bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes, like the horse’s, were rolling, and sweat beaded his brow as he tried to lift himself, then fell back. A slow trickle of blood began to form at the corner of his mouth. The crowd in the bailey started to surge forward, but a voice that carried with a loud resonance gave a sharp command for them to keep back. Through the press Gerard Camville stepped and made his way to where the stricken forester lay.
Before he could reach Tostig, another figure streaked through the shocked throng. It was Joanna. She ran to Tostig and knelt by his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bascot moved to stand at Tostig’s feet. It was plain the forester was mortally hurt. There would be no recovery from such an injury.
Tostig had closed his eyes, but he opened them as he heard Joanna call his name. His gaze fell on Bascot. “Damn your heart, Templar. If it had not been for you, I would not have been found out.”
Joanna shook her head and, with one long slim hand, she smoothed the hair back from the forester’s brow. “No, my love,” she said quietly. “It is not the Templar you should damn, but my mother. May she be consigned to hell for this day’s work.”
The girl looked up to where Melisande still sat captive on her horse, frozen into place as she watched her daughter cry over the woodsman.
“It was you, Mother, who caused all this. You, and your love of gold and position.” Joanna threw back her head and laughed, a bitter sound that died in her throat and became a sob. “It would not have been seemly, would it Mother, for your daughter to marry a common woodsman? You wanted a rich merchant, at the very least. And all the while you were more base than the lowest serf, stealing the very revenues that the king pays you to protect. Well, Mother, now you shall have a just reward for your treachery, and so shall I. But I, at least, shall feel that my pain was worth it. Will yours be?”
The sheriff had reached Tostig as Joanna was speaking and, calling for a measure of wine, he knelt beside the dying man and held the cup to his lips. Tostig tried to drink, but it ran out of the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood that had begun to flow in a heavy stream. He coughed, and looked up at Gerard. “I am sorry, my lord, for failing you.”
“You did not fail me, Tostig,” Gerard Camville said gently, and Bascot was surprised to hear the compassion in his tone. “You have served me well and faithfully all these years. I will not forget that.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The words came with effort from Tostig’s lips as, with a shudder and a great outpouring of blood from his mouth, he died.
Twenty-nine
BASCOT FELT THE TIREDNESS IN HIS BONES AS HE MADE his way up the stairs to Nicolaa’s chamber. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. It was an hour past Compline and he had yet to give his report to the castellan. A
fter sending Gianni to bed in the barracks, he and Ernulf had taken Joanna to a room off the armoury and questioned her. Anger had pushed through her tears as she had told them all of the tale, of her mother’s cupidity and intransigence, of Hubert’s demands and, finally, of her love for Tostig.
“We knew it was only a matter of time before my mother found out about us, Tostig and me,” she had said, her mouth quivering as she fought the urge to sob, “but we had thought to force her acceptance of our union. Tostig knew of her theft of the king’s revenues and of Copley’s traffic with the outlaws. He was going to threaten to reveal it to Sir Gerard unless she gave us her blessing.”
Joanna shook her head and then bowed it in her hands. When she lifted it her face was full of misery. “We needed only a few days, until King John should be here. Tostig said that would be the best time to do it, for my mother was all agog to please the king. She would have been too fearful of his displeasure to have done other than as we asked.”
“And Hubert found out about you and Tostig before you could carry out your plan?” Bascot had prompted.
“That maggot!” Joanna’s vehemence was plain. “We made certain he would regain his senses before we hanged him,” she said with bitter satisfaction, “and know the fate that awaited him. I watched Tostig kill him with pleasure.”
“And the charcoal burner and his family, did you watch their deaths with pleasure, too?” Bascot could not hide his anger.
Joanna’s shoulders slumped. “No,” she whispered. “Neither Tostig nor I had any joy in that.” She had lifted her head defiantly. “But that was your fault, Templar. If you had left well enough alone and not gone chasing into the forest with your questions…”
These last words kept ringing in Bascot’s mind as he reached the top of the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Nicolaa’s chamber. When he went in he found the castellan seated, as usual, at her desk, and Gerard’s brother, William, standing by the fireplace with a cup of wine. Two torches flared in wall sconces, giving the room a bright illumination.