by Ash, Maureen
In front of the barracks he saw Roget and Ernulf standing with pots of ale in their hands. The faces of both men were downcast and their conversation, usually bantering, was desultory. The events of the morning had cast a pall over the entire castle as servants tended to their tasks in a dispirited fashion, and occasional baleful glances were directed towards the holding cells where the family of Jacques Roulan was imprisoned.
Gianni did not feel like partaking of the meal that was being laid out in the hall, nor did he wish the company of others, so he turned his steps towards the old stone tower that stood in the southwest corner of the bail. This building had once been the keep and main residence of the sheriff and his wife but with the erection of a taller, and much more capacious, fortress a few years before, now housed only the armoury on the bottom storey and a few empty chambers above that were used to accommodate visitors to the castle. The tower was three stories high and, at the top, was the small room that Bascot and Gianni had been given when they arrived in Lincoln in the winter of 1199. The lad entered the building and slowly mounted the stairs to the upper storey, remembering how it had been difficult for his former master to climb them when they first arrived because of an injury he had sustained to his ankle while escaping from the Saracens. It had only been due to Bascot’s acquisition of a new pair of boots skilfully fitted with strengthening pads by a Lincoln cobbler that the Templar had finally been able to climb them with ease.
Gianni came to the door of the room they had occupied for two long years and slowly pushed the door open. It was as bare as he remembered it, with a stone shelf on one side where the Templar had slept on a straw-stuffed mattress. Gianni’s bed had been laid on the floor, his covering an old cloak Bascot had provided. The straw pallets were still there, rolled up and piled in a corner for use by the next guest, and the small brazier that had dispensed their only warmth in the cold days of winter stood in a corner, piled high with unlit charcoal. Gone, of course, were their meagre personal effects—the trunk with their few items of clothing and the little box in which Gianni had kept the scribing instruments with which the Templar had taught his young servant to read and write.
Gianni went over to the stone shelf that Bascot had used for a bed and knelt beside it. This was where he and the Templar had been accustomed to saying their prayers and that is what he did now, sending up heartfelt thanks to God for keeping Bascot free from harm. He then added an earnest plea that Brother Emilius be greeted with favour in heaven. Once this was done, he took the straw pallet that the Templar had used, spread it on the stone shelf and lay down. Nicolaa de la Haye had said he was now a man but, at this moment, he still felt like the young orphan that the Templar had rescued from certain starvation in Palermo. He knew his insecurity would pass with time and that once the Templar had departed from Lincoln, he would be able to accept his master’s absence with more equanimity. But, for now, he felt a comfort in remembrance of the days when the Templar had been by his side. Closing his eyes, he felt himself relax, and was soon fast asleep.
IN THE PRECEPTORY, AS ROGET HAD FORESEEN, EMILIUS WAS deeply mourned. With Preceptor d’Arderon, Bascot undertook the task of cleansing and readying the draper’s corpse for burial. Since the Lincoln preceptory did not have a cemetery within its confines, it was decided that Emilius would be taken to the burial ground of a much larger enclave a few miles south of Lincoln. Until arrangements for the ceremony could be made, the men of the next contingent would stay in the preceptory and, along with the brothers regularly based in the commandery, keep vigil over the draper’s bier.
Twenty-nine
ON THE MORNING OF THE THIRD DAY AFTER HIS UNTIMELY death, Emilius’s coffin was secured to the bed of a large dray and the men who would form the escort lined up alongside to accompany the draper’s body on its last earthly journey. Temple Bruer, where they were bound, was situated in a lonely stretch of land in Lincoln Heath, a property that had been donated to the Order some fifty years before. It had then been a desolate place, inhabited only by the sheep that provided wool for the preceptory’s main source of income, but the brothers’ arrival had enlivened it with their presence. To reach it, the cortege needed to travel down the track that led outside the eastern wall of Lincoln town, cross over the River Witham and onto the southbound stretch of Ermine Street. After a few miles, where Ermine Street ran along the edge of Lincoln Cliff, they would reach the western edge of the preceptory’s property and could travel down a forked track, one arm of which led south to Byard’s Leap, where the enclave’s horses were exercised, and the other eastward to the Temple Bruer preceptory.
Bascot and d’Arderon led the funeral procession, riding at the head of the column in front of the cart on which Emilius’s coffin, draped with his own white surcoat, lay cushioned on thick blankets. A man-at-arms held the reins of the two horses hitched to the dray and Brother John, the priest of the enclave, rode beside him. At the end, riding two abreast, were six brothers from the Lincoln preceptory. Serjeant Hamo had been left behind to take temporary command in d’Arderon’s absence. Tears had trickled down the dour serjeant’s face as he had watched the cortege exit through the preceptory gate. He, along with the lay brothers and servants and the men of the contingent, had stood in a solemn line as the procession passed by.
As the cortege neared the suburb of Butwerk, they could see that a great number of Lincoln townsfolk had gathered along the track. Stretching down along the city walls past Pottergate and along to the banks of the River Witham, they stood respectfully silent as the procession came near, many of the women weeping and the men with bowed heads. One small group was composed entirely of prostitutes. Terese stood at the front of the women, holding Elfie’s little daughter, Ducette, in her arms. The child’s eyes were round with wonder as she gazed at the sober-faced Templars, all clad in full armour covered by surcoats with the blood red cross of the Order emblazoned on the chest.
Tears blinded Bascot’s eye as he saw the sorrow on the faces of the people they passed. Throughout the murder investigation that had led to Emilius’s death, the draper had always been fearful that the reputation of the Templar Order would be defiled, tainted by a shroud of dishonour that could never be expunged. Along with the majority of Templar brothers, Emilius had an unshakeable belief in the rightness of their cause, and had never doubted that his duty lay to fight for Christ in defending Christian lands against the encroachment of the Saracens and to protect the pilgrims who wished to visit the places Our Lord had sanctified with his presence. But one rogue Templar like Jacques Roulan could, in the eyes of the Christian populace, give a false impression of corruption. The grieving presence of the townspeople gathered along the path proved that had not happened. The draper’s sacrifice of his life in commission of his duty had, instead, inspired admiration and respect for his memory and, in so doing, for the Order to which he belonged. Emilius had not died in vain.
WHEN THE MEN OF THE ESCORT RETURNED TO LINCOLN TWO days later, a Templar messenger from London was waiting for d’Arderon. On the day that Bascot had returned to the preceptory with Emilius’s body, the preceptor had sent a letter to Thomas Berard relating all the sad details of what had passed. He had also appended a note of his intention to allow the departure of the long delayed contingent for Portugal. The messenger waiting in the enclave had brought Master Berard’s reply.
D’Arderon, his shoulders still slumped with sorrow, went to his office to open the letter, asking Bascot to accompany him. Once he had read the missive, the preceptor laid it on the table in front of him and stood without speaking for several moments. Finally, he said quietly, “Master Berard conveys his condolences on Emilius’s death and tells me that a requiem Mass for the draper was held in London the day after my message reached him.”
The preceptor then paced slowly across the room to the window, adding as he did so that a note had been made of the departure of the contingent and a boat would be waiting for their arrival in Portsmouth to carry them across the Narrow Sea to Portugal
.
When d’Arderon reached the casement he turned and gave Bascot a direct look. “Master Berard also deals with another matter in his missive. Another knight must be chosen to fill the office of draper and your name has been suggested for the post.” He paused for a moment, his eyes searching Bascot’s countenance for the younger knight’s reaction. “Master Berard can command you to the position,” d’Arderon said finally, “but he would rather you took up the duty with a willing heart. What say you?”
Bascot was taken aback. He had fully expected to leave for Portugal shortly after they had returned from Temple Bruer. Now his mind whirled with the implications of the unexpected offer. To be awarded the post of draper was an honour that was not to be lightly decried, but it would mean that he would, for the foreseeable future at least, not be considered for active duty. He was not sure how to respond.
D’Arderon saw the younger knight’s confusion and sought a way to ease it. “I know it is a difficult decision to make, Bascot, and one that requires certainty of commitment. Perhaps you would like to spend some time in prayer to aid your reflection.”
“I would, Preceptor,” Bascot replied thankfully.
“So be it,” d’Arderon replied understandingly. “The contingent will leave at first light tomorrow. You have until then to give me your answer.”
AFTER THE REST OF THE ENCLAVE HAD RETIRED TO THEIR pallets, Bascot spent the hours between Compline and Matins in the preceptory chapel praying for guidance. After Emilius’s interment, Bascot had consoled himself with the thought that he would soon go to Portugal and take up the fight for Christendom in the draper’s stead. Emilius had often spoken of his time there and how he wished that he was still fit enough to stand by his brethren in Tomar as they waged an ongoing battle to rid the Iberian peninsula of the Moorish invaders. If Bascot accepted the draper’s post and stayed in Lincoln, that goal would not be realised. But was not the work that Emilius had done here in the preceptory just as critical for the defence of Portugal as his time on active duty? Without a constant supply of trained men and arms, the defence of the land around Tomar and Almourol would be impossible. Was Bascot putting his own selfish desires before the needs of his brethren?
Above him the candle on the altar burned brightly, casting shadows from the pillars that encircled the interior of the church. To one side was a life-size image of the Virgin Mary cradling the infant Jesus in her arms, and the faint aroma of incense filled the air. Nearby was the door to the vestry where the body of Elfreda had been found and where Emilius had kept the clothing for which he was responsible. The post of draper was an important one and Bascot knew that his education made him suitable for the responsibilities. But was it truly God’s will for him to take up the post, or was he being influenced by the awareness that if he stayed in Lincoln, he would remain in close proximity to Gianni, the boy he loved so dearly? He had to admit that when d’Arderon had told him of the appointment, that had been the first thought that had flashed through his mind. Was he letting his affection for the boy cloud his judgement?
He brought up his hands to clasp them before him as he once again bowed his head in prayer and, as he did so, his fingers brushed the small leather scrip he wore at his belt. Other than the few silver pennies each brother was allowed to carry in case of emergencies, it also contained a small piece of Lincolnshire stone. He remembered well the night he had picked it up. It had been a few months before, just after the time of Christ’s Mass, when he had been standing alone on the top step of the forebuilding of the keep in Lincoln castle and pondering his return to the Order in a few months time. The piece of stone must have become dislodged from the façade of the keep and fallen onto the ground near his feet. His purpose in keeping it had been because he had thought that no matter how far away he travelled from the town he had come to regard as home, and from the young lad he loved like a son, he would always carry a piece of solid remembrance with him. Now he took the stone out of his scrip and held it up to the radiance of the candle. The fragment was about the size of the palm of his hand, flat and smooth on the side where it had fractured from a much larger piece, the surface covered with tiny wavering striations in different shades of light and dark grey. The uneven lines reminded him of how difficult the passage of a man’s life could be and that, as so often happens, it could undulate from confident resolution to dithering uncertainty in a matter of moments.
Still holding the stone in his hand, he turned his gaze to the crucifix above the altar and realised he had found the answer to his dilemma. It was not God who made life-altering decisions difficult, but man himself. God’s ways were simple and direct. If His intention had been otherwise, the offer of the draper’s post would not have been made. Bascot rose from his knees and went into the vestry, then opened the chest where the knights’ surcoats were kept. Carefully lifting out the piles of clothing that Emilius had folded so neatly, he laid them to one side and placed the piece of stone on the bottom of the coffer. Then he repacked the garments with the same care that Emilius would have taken and closed the lid.
Leaving the vestry he genuflected in front of the altar and went out into the compound to give d’Arderon his answer. Until, and unless, Our Lord decreed otherwise, he would remain in Lincoln.
Author’s Note
SETTING
The setting for Shroud of Dishonour is an authentic one. Nicolaa de la Haye was hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle during this period, and her husband, Gerard Camville, was sheriff of Lincoln. The personalities they have been given in the story have been formed from conclusions the author has drawn from events during the reigns of King Richard I and King John.
TEMPLAR HEIRARCHY
In all the reference material I have consulted, three social classifications are given to the men who served within the Templar Order—knight, priest and serjeant. Each class wore garments of a colour that denoted their status—white surcoats for knights, green for priests and black or brown for serjeants. While I have been writing the Bascot de Marins series, I have separated the rank of serjeant into two, that of serjeant and ordinary man-at-arms. Since there are many more scenes taking place in the Templar enclave in Shroud of Dishonour than in the previous books in the series, I would like to include here, for those readers who are interested, an explanation of my reason for this distinction.
The word serjeant is derived from the Old French word sergent, which comes from the Latin servient, the present participle stem of servire (“serve”), which implies the simple designation of “servant.” The term “serjeant” or “sergeant” was not accorded military status until three centuries after my Templar Knight Mysteries take place. All words, however, have some root in the distant past and it is quite possible that the word was used in its modern connotation long before it was accorded official recognition. I have, therefore, given it a separate grade because, just as a hierarchy of commanders was included within those of knight’s rank—master, preceptor, draper, marshal, etc.—brothers of a lower social class held posts such as under-marshall and standard bearer. In any military force, whether medieval or modern, common sense dictates that men of more experience and longer service are selected to take charge of troops who are unseasoned or have less capability. A parallel can be drawn from our present day armies where the ranks of corporal and sergeant are accorded to non-commissioned officers. I have, therefore, used the term to denote this difference. Since two colours of surcoat, brown and black, are always mentioned in the annals as being worn by Templar serjeants, I have taken the liberty of assigning the former to those of higher rank and the latter to the rest.
CANONICAL HOURS
The following is an abbreviated list taken from The Monastic Horarium according to the Regularis Concordia: The Monastic Order in England by Dom David Knowles (Cambridge University Press).
For details of medieval Lincoln and the Order of the Knights Templar, I am much indebted to the following:Medieval Lincoln by J.W.F. Hill (Cambridge University Press)
Dun
geon, Fire and Sword—The Knights Templar in the Crusades by
John J. Robinson (M. Evans and Company, Inc.)
In Search of the Knights Templar—A Guide to the Sites in Britain by
Simon Brighton (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)
MAUREEN ASH was born in London, England, and has had a lifelong interest in British medieval history. Visits to castle ruins and old churches have provided the inspiration for her novels. She enjoys Celtic music, browsing in bookstores and Belgian chocolate. Maureen now lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.