by Ash, Maureen
EARLIER THAT MORNING, A LINCOLN PROSTITUTE NAMED Adele Delorme was startled out of sleep by a knock at the door. She was not a common harlot like Elfie, forced to earn her living under the protection of a panderer in one of the stewes in the lower part of town, but a woman of great beauty who, by using her physical attributes in a discriminating fashion, owned the house in Danesgate where she entertained a select number of wealthy men.
As Adele rose from her bed on the upper floor to respond to the knocking at her door, she mentally castigated herself for not replacing the maidservant who had left her employ a couple of weeks before. But the position required a girl who was willing to endanger her own reputation by working in the household of a harlot and also had the good sense to keep a still tongue in her head about the men who came to enjoy Adele’s favours. Such a discriminating servant was not easy to find and, so far, there had been no suitable candidates.
Hastily throwing a light cloak about her nakedness, the elegant prostitute went downstairs. Her caller stood close to the step, a hooded cloak partially shielding the face. It took Adele a second or two to rub the sleep out of her eyes and recognise her visitor but, when she did, she evinced surprise.
“I had not thought to ever see you again,” she said.
“Nor I you,” the caller replied. “Will you allow me to come in? I have an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”
Reluctantly, Adele nodded. “I suppose I owe you such a favour,” she said. “But you will have to wait downstairs while I get dressed.”
The visitor followed Adele into a small chamber just off the entryway. The prostitute bid her guest be seated in a comfortable chair and poured a cup of wine, which she set on a table near the chair.
“I will only be a few moments,” Adele said and, pushing back the thick locks of auburn hair that had fallen over her shoulders, hastened from the room.
As she made her way up the staircase to the upper floor, she was unaware that her caller had not waited in the chamber as she had bid but had, after a few moments, followed her up the stairs with stealthy steps. Nor, as she donned a kirtle of embroidered sendal, did she hear the door come softly open behind her. The first indication that she was not alone was when a length of strong leather cord encircled her neck and was pulled so tight that it choked off her breath. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the cord that was strangling her and she tried to scream, but to no avail. Within seconds, she was dead.
Adele’s body was not discovered until late in the evening when one of her wealthy patrons, an armourer, called at her dwelling for his regular appointment. Just like Elfreda, Adele had been garrotted, but this time additional injuries had been inflicted on the prostitute’s dead body. The armourer, a man of strong physical and mental constitution, nonetheless felt his senses reel when he saw what had been done to her. After ripping the harlot’s gown from neck to navel, the point of a sharp knife had been used to carve a symbol on the delicate flesh of Adele’s left breast. It was a cross pattée, the emblem of the Templar Order.
Eight
THOUGH THE WEATHER OVER THE PRECEDING DAYS HAD BEEN exceptionally fine, the next morning dawned with a heavily overcast sky that promised rain. Well before report of the second prostitute’s death reached the preceptory, Bascot went to ask Preceptor d’Arderon if he would accompany him out onto the hillside and give his opinion on one of the mounts that Bascot had chosen to take with him to Portugal. Every Templar knight was allowed to have three horses; if they didn’t bring the animals with them when they joined, or if the mounts became incapacitated, they were provided by the Order. The preceptor had bidden Bascot take his pick from the steeds in the commandery and now that he had made his choice, he wanted d’Arderon’s approval of the animal that was to be his destrier. The preceptor was a good judge of horseflesh and his opinion worth having.
As the men-at-arms began to assemble in the middle of the commandery for Emilius’s inspection, the pair rode out of the preceptory gate and down onto the grassy slope below, Bascot paying particular attention to the gait of his mount. The horse was a sure-footed sorrel stallion. It was smaller in stature than some of the other destriers in the stable, but it had a solid stance and alert temperament. Bascot was confident it would serve him well in any confrontation with the enemy and it looked to have enough stamina to withstand a long journey. He had chosen another stallion, a mature grey that Hamo had recommended, as an alternate war horse, and a black gelding to use as a packhorse, leaving them both with the blacksmith to have new shoes fitted. As he rode the sorrel up and down the grassy stretch, guiding it into swift turns and abrupt halts, the preceptor sat atop his huge black destrier and watched Bascot put the stallion through the manoeuvres. D’Arderon’s wide muscular figure was immobile, but every so often his eyes would stray to dark clouds that were beginning to gather on the southern horizon. Bascot would, afterwards, think of those clouds as a dire omen of events to come.
Bascot felt more than a little concern for the preceptor’s state of mind. The death of the harlot and defilement of the chapel had shaken him badly, as did the depressed morale of the men. D’Arderon took his responsibilities with great seriousness. Even though it was impossible for him to have prevented Elfreda’s murder from taking place, Bascot knew the preceptor nonetheless felt a share of the responsibility, if only for the fact that it was one of the men under his command—the guard on the gate—that had admitted the bawd and her killer into the enclave. During the time a poisoner had been loose in Lincoln a year before, when one of the bailiffs employed by the Order to supervise a Templar property had been found to be of a loose moral standard, d’Arderon had blamed himself for not having been more scrupulous in checking the man’s credentials.
Bascot was certain that, at this moment, as d’Arderon gazed towards the south coast of England, the preceptor wished to be a part of the contingent due to leave the next day. D’Arderon had been stationed in the Holy Land for many years and, during that time, had pitted his considerable strength and military expertise against the Saracens. It was probable that Emilius felt the same. Although the draper was two decades younger than the preceptor, he had, until his injury deprived him of the use of his arm, spent ten years fighting the Moors in Portugal. Neither man made complaint of their present situation, both content to serve Christ to the best of their abilities in any way they could, but now, contending with the murder of a woman in the preceptory’s chapel, and the resultant accusation that a Templar brother might be the cause of her death, both officers must long for the uncomplicated life of active duty.
Roget came riding down the hill just as the two knights were preparing to return to the enclave. The captain’s expression was grim and, when he came up to d’Arderon, he saluted the preceptor and told in a blunt fashion the grisly news of Adele Delorme’s death.
“Another harlot’s been murdered,” he said. “In the town. She was found last night, but it looks as though she has been dead for at least twelve hours. The sheriff went to his hunting lodge yesterday and Lady Nicolaa has despatched a servant to inform him of the death. It was she who sent me here.”
The former mercenary hesitated for a moment before he continued. “This bawd was also garrotted, Preceptor, but there were other injuries inflicted on this latest victim that Lady Nicolaa thought you should be told of immediately.”
D’Arderon’s face blanched as Roget related the grisly details of the butchery that had been done to Adele’s body.
After a moment of complete silence, the preceptor rammed his spurs into the flanks of his destrier and the startled animal leapt forward. D’Arderon kept the horse at full gallop up the hillside, heading for the enclave. Taken off guard by the suddenness of the preceptor’s reaction, it was a few moments before Bascot and Roget followed in his wake.
When d’Arderon reached the preceptory gate, he charged through and came to a sliding halt in the middle of the compound. Dismounting in one fluid motion, he tossed the reins of his horse to a groom, and strode off in t
he direction of his office.
“Emilius! De Marins! Attend me,” he barked, never once turning his head.
The draper, who had just begun his inspection of the men-at-arm’s equipment and clothing, looked up in surprise at d’Arderon’s abrupt entrance into the commandery, and hastily told the brothers standing in line to await his return before hurrying after the preceptor. When Bascot caught up with him, he told the draper in a few succinct words of the murder of a second harlot and that a Templar cross had been carved on her chest. Emilius’s gaze grew cloudy with dismay as he assimilated the blasphemous nature of the wanton cruelty.
When they entered the preceptor’s office, d’Arderon was standing by the one small window the room possessed, gazing out of the narrow aperture at the men under his command, now standing in puzzled groups looking towards his office.
The preceptor turned and spoke as Bascot and Emilius entered the room. “This murdering bastard must be caught,” he rasped. “Not only has he killed two women, he has placed the Order, and this enclave, under attack.”
D’Arderon moved to the desk, the expression on his face rigid with suppressed wrath. “Until I order differently, no one is to leave the commandery without my express permission.”
“But, Preceptor,” Emilius protested, “the contingent going to Portugal is due to leave tomorrow....”
“Their departure must be delayed,” d’Arderon replied abruptly. “Someone in the preceptory is the cause of this devil’s hatred. I would stake my life that it is not one of the brothers that are based here in Lincoln, nor any of our lay brothers or servants. The two murders must be connected, so the men of the cohort that just left can be exonerated. Therefore it must be one of the men in the contingent that is still in the enclave. Until I discover which of them has committed the sin that is enraging this madman, they will stay.”
Emilius said no more, but his expression mirrored his disappointment of the preceptor’s decision. The morale of the men was already low; to be told they would not leave as planned would deflate it further.
“The only information we have on these brothers was contained in the missive sent from London to warn us of their arrival,” d’Arderon continued. “It states only their name, rank and length of service.” He barked an order at Emilius. “You will write immediately, Draper, to the preceptories from which they came and ask for more information about each man, especially whether any have been subjected to punishment and, if so, the reason for it.”
“Many of them have only recently joined the Order,” Emilius replied repressively. “It is hardly likely they would have transgressed in such a short space of time.”
At the implied criticism in the draper’s voice, the anger that d’Arderon had been holding in check finally exploded.
“You will follow my orders, Draper, and without question, as you are sworn to do.” The preceptor had not raised his voice, but there was no mistaking the depth of his emotion.
Emilius, whose steadfast commitment to his vow of obedience had wavered for a moment, flinched at the reprimand and nodded his acceptance of the rebuke.
D’Arderon walked over towards the window and stood looking out the grilled opening for a few long moments in silence before turning once again towards the two knights. When he spoke, his words were milder in tone. “If this devil’s objective is to cause dissension among us, we must take care that he does not succeed. There is another reason for my keeping the contingent back, Emilius, and it is that we cannot be certain that the man committing these outrages is not a Templar.”
The draper reacted to d’Arderon’s words with a shocked countenance and the preceptor looked at Bascot. “My charge comes as no surprise to you, does it, de Marins?”
When Bascot gave a brief nod in response to the question, the draper looked at him in puzzlement. For all his battle experience, Emilius’s forthright nature still contained a touch of innocence. His devotion to Christ and the Order had blinded him to the fact that it was not only infidels who were capable of evil acts, and had certainly never led him to envision that the murderer might be a fellow Templar.
“I have considered the whereabouts of all of the men on the night the harlot was smuggled into the chapel,” d’Arderon said to the draper. “At that time, the men of both contingents were here. With the press of bodies it would not have been difficult for one of them to steal out before Vespers or Compline and go into the town.”
The preceptor began to pace as he went on. “The same is true of this latest murder. Captain Roget said she was killed sometime yesterday morning. There was a lot of movement about the enclave yesterday—the men were preparing themselves for today’s inspection, grooms were exercising the horses out on the hillside, and others were helping to unload a supply of grain. It would not have been impossible for a lone man to slip out and go into Lincoln; the track down the hillside gives easy access to a gate into the city. And he need not have been gone long enough to be missed. I do not imagine it would take a great space of time for a man to murder a helpless woman and desecrate her body.” These last words were uttered in tones of disgust.
“But surely the man who did this must have local knowledge?” Emilius said. “These men have only been here for a few days—how would they know where to find prostitutes within a town that is strange to them?”
“That is why I want to know more about each one,” d’Arderon said. “It is quite possible that one of them has been in Lincoln before, or even lived here. May God prevent my suspicion proving true, but we must be certain.”
Dismally, Emilius nodded his reluctant acceptance of his superior’s opinion and his disciplined nature reasserted itself. “Do you wish me to also write a letter to Master Berard in London, Preceptor,” he asked, “to give warning that the contingent will not leave tomorrow as planned? It will be necessary to inform the captain of the ship on which they are to travel that their arrival will be delayed.”
“No, I will do that myself,” d’Arderon replied.
The preceptor spoke to Bascot. “My stricture that no one leaves the enclave does not include you, de Marins. I want you to pursue this villain with every capability you possess. If need be, you are excused attendance at any of the daily services.”
Bascot nodded his understanding and the three men closed their eyes in prayer, offering up a supplication for heavenly guidance.
Nine
IN THE CASTLE KEEP AS TIME FOR THE MIDDAY MEAL APPROACHED, trestle tables were set up in the hall and laid with platters of cold meat, bowls of pottage and bread. The sheriff had not yet returned in response to the messenger Nicolaa de la Haye had sent to inform him of the second murder and the castellan sat at the table on the dais alone, barely touching the food a page placed in front of her. Her slightly protuberant blue eyes gazed unfocussed over the sea of heads below. From time to time she took a small sip from her wine cup.
As the clerks in the scriptorium came down to the hall for their meal, Gianni glanced quickly around to see who had entered and then signed to Lambert that he would not take his accustomed place at their table, but eat in the barracks instead. The clerk looked surprised, but made no comment. Grabbing some slices of cold pork and a couple of chunks of the coarse rye bread meant for those of lower station, Gianni ran out of the keep, down the steps of the forebuilding and into the bail. Everyone in the castle knew about the killing of the second prostitute and that Roget had been sent by Lady Nicolaa to tell the commander of the preceptory what had happened. Gianni knew that once the captain had done that he would return to the castle and await the sheriff’s return. Since Gerard Camville had not yet arrived, and neither Roget nor Ernulf was in the hall, Gianni reckoned they were both in the long low building that housed the garrison. The boy, out of concern for his former master, hoped to learn from Roget more details about the murder that had taken place that morning.
When he ran into the barracks, it was almost empty. Most of the men-at-arms had gone to the hall to eat the midday meal but, aware that Er
nulf usually kept a supply of food in the cubicle he used for his private sleeping place, Gianni was sure that was where the serjeant and Roget would be.
He heard a low murmur of conversation as he approached the stout leather curtain that separated the serjeant’s compartment from the large open space where the men-at-arms slept and knew his assumption had been correct. Rattling the leather screen to warn of his approach, he slipped inside.
Both men looked up as he came in, but beyond a nod of greeting they paid him no mind. During the two years that the Templar had stayed in Lincoln castle, the boy had often accompanied Bascot while he had shared a pot of ale with Roget and Ernulf and they were accustomed to his silent company.
Moving quietly to the corner and sitting atop his usual perch on a stack of rolled up straw mattresses, Gianni munched quietly on his bread and meat as he listened to Roget tell how Adele Delorme had been killed and of the terrible wound on her chest.
“It was a sight to chill a man’s blood,” the captain said as he recalled the prostitute’s face, her mouth agape and jaw stiffened. “She was a woman of rare beauty. For someone to destroy such loveliness is in itself a sacrilege.”
Gianni had seen the woman Roget was speaking of. She had, indeed, been beautiful, with hair the colour of burnished copper and green eyes that were reminiscent of limpid pools in a forest glade. Her figure had been tall and willowy, and the boy had seen men catch their breath at sight of her slim, swanlike neck.