Murder for Christ's Mass

by Maureen Ash

  “It might also be profitable to ask Cerlo if he or any of the quarrymen have been atop the cliff face in the last week or two,” Bascot suggested. “It could be that one of them, or a visitor to the quarry, dropped the coin. If so, their possession of it may prove legitimate. It could be a keepsake handed down by a relative or simply a token kept for good luck. If it was, it will have no connection with a trove.”

  “Let us hope that is what happened,” Camville said curtly. “I would much prefer to find that Brand’s killing is a simple case of murder committed during the course of a robbery than because of some conspiracy involving hidden treasure. But all the same, de Marins, make no mention of finding the coin to anyone you question. As I said, I want its existence kept privily for the nonce.”

  “And if Coroner Pinchbeck should return to Lincoln before you are satisfied about the provenance of the penny, Father, will you tell him about it?” Richard asked dubiously. “The investigation of a trove is as much within his writ as yours and it would greatly enhance his standing with the king if he can claim the credit for finding one. He will be very irate if you do not tell him.”

  Camville scowled in disgust. “No, I will say nothing to him until I know whether my suspicions are valid or not. The man is a lazy bastard and takes advantage of my help whenever he has the opportunity to do so. Let him remain in ignorance until I am ready to enlighten him.”

  Five

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, AFTER THE MASS OF THE Divine Word, the task of decorating the hall had been completed, and, as the company assembled, they looked about them appreciatively. On the walls hung circlets of holly depicting the crown of thorns that Jesus wore, the bright red berries nestling amongst the dark green leaves symbolising drops of His precious blood. Ropes of ivy and sprigs of bay festooned the tables and the room flared with light from a multitude of torches and beeswax candles. In the hearth, the trunk of an oak tree burned and the heady scent of cloves wafted from mounds of spiced winter apples heaped in bowls on the tables. The ambience was warm and welcoming.

  As the cathedral bells rang out the hour of Vespers, flagons of wine and ale were brought in and cups filled. At the high table on the dais, Gerard Camville sat with his wife and guests. On his left were Gilbert Bassett and his wife, Egelina; their daughter Eustachia was keeping company with Richard farther down the board. The young couple made a handsome pair, Richard’s bright red hair and fair complexion a startling contrast to the dark tresses and deep brown eyes of the woman he would soon pledge to make his wife.

  On the sheriff’s right hand, beside Lady Nicolaa, sat Ralph of Turville and his wife, Maud, with Eustachia’s younger sister, Lucia, watching protectively over Turville’s young son, Stephen. Gesticulating with her hands towards the musicians that had begun to play quietly at the back of the hall, Lucia talked volubly to Stephen while the boy, silent behind his silken muffler, nodded in response.

  Just below the dais, where the household knights sat, Bascot took his customary seat above the ornately worked silver saltcellar that marked the dividing line between those of high rank and low. He gave a friendly nod to John Blund, secretarius to Nicolaa de la Haye, who was seated on his left in the space reserved for those who were foremost among the upper servants of the household.

  Blund was an elderly man, a sparse figure with eyes of faded blue and thinning hair. His demeanour was gentle, but his face had an intelligent cast and there was a hint of fastidiousness in his erect bearing. Across the board from Blund was Lambert, the secretary’s assistant, a man of about thirty years of age and unprepossessing appearance, his lantern-jawed visage wearing its habitual introspective expression. His aspect lightened, however, when he saw Gianni and he gave the boy a companionable smile. It was Lambert’s responsibility, under Blund’s direction, to instruct the Templar’s servant in the rules of grammar and logic, and he seemed to have formed a comradely liking for the lad, even taking the time to learn the hand signals Gianni used to communicate with his master in the hope it would facilitate the lessons he gave the boy. When Lambert nodded respectfully in the Templar’s direction, Bascot returned the greeting with warmth.

  Once everyone was seated, the steward, Eudo, gave a signal to the musicians and they struck up a lively air, the strings of rebec and citole providing a harmonious background to the sweet piping of flutes. As the opening strains commenced, a procession of servants came through the door that led to the kitchen, the foremost carrying wide-mouthed bowls of wassail—a costly brew of mulled ale, ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon topped with sops, or slices, of toasted stale bread. One of these bowls was laid on every table, even those at the back of the hall where the servants of lowest rank were seated, and as each of them were set down, everyone shouted the old Saxon cry of waes hael, to wish one another “good health.” Following the bowls of wassail was a huge board carried by a half dozen servants, on which was laid a whole roasted pig, including the head, its mouth stuffed with an apple. This was placed on a small table near the dais so Eudo could carve it before it was served to those seated at the high table. In the wake of the roast pig came trays laid with slices of venison and goose—for the delectation of the knights and upper household servants—and, at the end of the train, umble pies—minced offal baked in coffins of pastry filled with thick gravy. These were for those of menial rank. There were also platters of boiled turnip, parsnip, onions and carrots, and loaves of bread piled high in wicker baskets.

  After all these delicacies had been devoured, bowls of frumenty, a thick porridge made of boiled wheat, eggs and dried fruit, would be served along with creamy slices of cheese and a plenitude of winter apples and plum conserve. It was a time of rare feasting and one that everyone—those of high station as well as low—looked forward to all the year long.

  As Gianni heaped Bascot’s trencher with chunks of venison, the Templar gave the boy permission, once he finished his task, to take a seat alongside Lambert. Normally Gianni would wait until Bascot had eaten his meal before he was allowed to get his own food, but the day of Christ’s Mass was one of leniency and goodwill, and the Templar felt that the boy, whose eyes were shining with expectation as he dished up his master’s food, could be allowed the laxity. The rest of the household knights seated alongside Bascot were allowing their servants the same liberty and, on the dais, Nicolaa de la Haye gave the pages serving the high table leave to join in the feast. Even the cook and kitchen scullions sat down at a table near the door and helped themselves to the food they had spent so many hours preparing.

  The air of merriment increased as tumblers entered the hall and began to cavort among the throng, playing silly tricks as they did so. Some snatched apples from the very mouths of those who were eating them and made them disappear, while others surprised the serving maids by pretending to pull bright ribbons from the necks of their gowns. As the acrobats amused the company, the musicians strolled around the perimeter of the room, playing merry tunes.

  As Bascot looked across at Gianni, who was hungrily tucking into the leg of a goose, the Templar once again felt a pang of sadness that he would be leaving Lincoln in a few months’ time. It had not been so very long since he had decided it would be necessary for him to leave the Templar Order to ensure the safety of Gianni’s welfare. It had only been through the intervention of Amery St. Maur, master of the Templar Order in England, that Bascot’s sacrifice had not been necessary. St. Maur had given Bascot sanction to remain in Lincoln until next Eastertide while Gianni completed his training as a clerk and, at the end of that time, if the boy showed competence, Nicolaa de la Haye had promised Gianni a post in her retinue. Since then, Gianni had applied himself to his studies with an industry that gave no doubt he would win the castellan’s approval and realise his dream of becoming a clerk. Pride in the boy’s accomplishments warred with regret in Bascot’s heart. He longed to rejoin his Templar brothers in their battle against the infidel but, at the same time, he knew he would sorely miss the young lad.

  John Blund saw the emotion tha
t clouded the Templar’s face and spoke in a whisper too soft for Gianni to hear. “Do not be concerned for the boy, Sir Bascot. Once you are gone from Lincoln, I assure you I will personally oversee his welfare and, if the infirmities of old age or my death should make me incapable of fulfilling that duty, Lady Nicolaa has promised to take my place.”

  “I know that, Master Blund, and am grateful for it,” Bascot replied earnestly. “But I shall miss his company all the same.”

  “And he yours,” Blund rejoined. “But even though both of your lives will change after you are gone from Lincoln, your affection for one another will not. Many a father would wish such closeness with his son as you have with Gianni. It is a true blessing and should be cherished, even if it must be done in absence.”

  Bascot accepted the wisdom in the secretary’s words and both men resumed their enjoyment of the viands on their trenchers. Some moments later, Blund spoke again, inclining his head in the direction of the high table. “It would seem young Master Stephen is most interested in the way Gianni is conversing with Lambert.”

  Bascot glanced up and saw that Turville’s son was watching intently as Gianni moved his hands quickly in Lambert’s direction, conveying how much he was enjoying the food on his plate by pointing to his trencher, his mouth and his stomach in rapid succession, then giving a light clap of his hands. Lambert nodded in response and then remarked that he wished they could eat such fare at every meal, and Gianni made another quick movement of his fingers in a signal of hearty agreement. At the high table, Stephen Turville placed his hand on Lucia’s arm to get her attention and pointed in Gianni’s direction.

  “Because of his impediment, Turville’s boy speaks little,” Blund said. “And even when he does, there are few that can understand him, his speech is so distorted. I think he is admiring the way in which Gianni, despite his muteness, communicates with others.” The secretary became reflective. “While he was learning the gestures, Lambert wrote down a description of them as an aid to memory and I read through the notes he made. Some are obvious, but others are not, not until you are told what they signify. I wonder if it would be worthwhile to make a permanent record of them. Such a manual might be of interest to tutors who have the task of teaching others afflicted with similar difficulties to your servant and Master Stephen, or to those who have been born deaf and never heard the spoken word. I am sure Lambert would be only too pleased to make a copy for any local scholar who shows interest in such a guide. And I would be more than willing to dedicate my own labour to such a charitable task.”

  Bascot agreed that such a record might be useful, but, as he did so, both his and the secretary’s attention were caught by the antics of one of the tumblers. The acrobat had been tossing coloured balls in the air, spinning about as he did so, and was now importuning one of the knights to give him a silver penny to include in his display of dexterity. Amid shouts of encouragement from his companions, the knight reluctantly parted with the coin, whereupon the tumbler began to toss the balls again, deftly twisting the coin between his fingers as he did so. The exhibition ended with the acrobat throwing the coin into the air along with the balls and catching the penny on the point of his chin as the balls fell neatly into the palm of his hand. As his audience gave voice to their admiration, the performer suddenly flipped over backwards in a somersault, and when he landed upright, the coin had disappeared. The knight who had contributed the silver penny let out a roar of disapproval and made a lunge for the acrobat but the tumbler danced nimbly out of the way and darted towards a heap of discarded apple cores lying on the table. Reaching into the pile, the tumbler extracted the coin and presented it to the knight with an exaggerated bow.

  As the companions of the disgruntled knight broke up in laughter, Bascot was reminded of the silver penny Gianni had found and of the investigation Gerard Camville had asked him to make into the murder of Peter Brand. By now the mason would have told others of the clerk’s death and the news would have spread to Brand’s friends and acquaintances in Lincoln, perhaps even to any relatives the clerk had in Grantham. For them, the day of Christ’s Mass would forever be overshadowed by the murder of one they held dear. He sent up a silent prayer that God would, once again, assist him in his quest to discover the identity of a person who had committed the grisly crime of murder.

  Six

  WITHIN THE LARGE BAIL OF LINCOLN CASTLE THERE are two keeps; an impressive fortress used as the primary residence of Gerard Camville and Nicolaa de la Haye and an older, much smaller, stone tower housing the armoury at ground level and a few sleeping chambers above. Bascot and Gianni shared a room at the top of the older keep and the next morning, as the cathedral bells rang out the hour of Prime, the Templar awoke and decided to make an early start on his investigation into Peter Brand’s murder. Gianni was still fast asleep, curled up in a ball on his straw pallet on the floor, and Bascot pushed his black leather eye patch into place before gently shaking the boy by the shoulder to waken him. After kneeling for a few moments in morning prayer, the pair put on their boots and cloaks and took coverings for their heads—Gianni a fur-lined bonnet he had been given by Ernulf, serjeant of the castle garrison, and Bascot the black quilted arming cap he wore under his helm. The pair then went down into the bail and across to the hall.

  Few of the castle household were astir. The feast of Christ’s Mass had lasted late into the evening and everyone was suffering from tiredness and overindulgence in food and drink. The only sign of activity was in the hall where a few sleepy servants were gathering up all the scraps of food remaining from the festive meal. These leftovers would be placed in wicker panniers and taken to the nearby church where they would be given as alms to the poor in honour of St. Stephen, the martyr whose holy day was celebrated after that of Christ’s birth.

  Since it was unlikely the morning meal would be served until all the food remnants had been bundled up, Bascot sent Gianni outside to the building that housed the kitchen to fetch some bread and cheese to break their fast while he went to the stables and ordered a horse to be saddled. As Gianni was excused from his duties in the scriptorium for the holy day, the Templar hoisted the boy up onto the pillion seat behind him and then guided his mount out of the bail. Before he went to the mint to speak to Brand’s employer, Bascot wanted to find Cerlo and ask the mason if anyone had been atop the cliff face in the days before the clerk had been murdered. If there had not been, it would have to be assumed that Brand or his killer had dropped the silver penny and Gerard Camville’s suspicion that a treasure trove might be involved in the slaying must be pursued.

  The morning air was crisp, but the temperature had risen slightly and their cloaks provided enough warmth to feel no discomfort as they rode across Ermine Street and entered the grounds of the Minster. Only a small number of townspeople were on their way to attend early Mass at the cathedral and Bascot was able to trot quickly past them, through Priory Gate and out onto the road leading to the quarry. As they neared the stone pit, they could hear the sounds of men at work; the creak of the huge wheel affixed to the winch, the thud of stone blocks settling on the sledges and the shouts of men urging mules to their task of pulling the heavy conveyances. Although today was a holy day, not everyone was allowed to spend it at leisure, and it appeared that work was being carried out in the quarry as usual, perhaps to make up for the time lost while the pit had been shut down.

  Passing the little track that led to the top of the cliff face, Bascot rode down Masons Row, heading for the buildings at the far end. He remembered passing them the day before when he had gone down into the quarry to view the clerk’s body—a small row of one-storey houses, a workshop and stables—and hoped he would be able to find someone in one of the buildings that could tell him Cerlo’s whereabouts.

  Just as they were nearing the first of the houses, a man clad in a cloak of coarse wool came trudging up the road from the direction of the workshop. His head was covered with a peaked cap that had a square piece of leather attached to the back to
protect his neck. All his clothes, as well as his face, were covered in a fine layer of stone dust. Slung over his shoulder was a bag of tools, an assortment of chisels and hammers, some of which were protruding from the top of the sack.

  The Templar hailed the man as he drew near and asked for the mason. “I’m not sure where he is, lord,” was the reply. “I don’t work in the quarry; I just come to measure some pieces of stone in the workshop. But he might be at home.” The stone worker turned and pointed to the small row of dwellings. “All t’other lodgings are empty ’til the summer, but Cerlo lives all year round in the last one along.”

  Bascot guided his mount to the dwelling that had been indicated, dismounted and, leaving Gianni to hold the reins of the horse, went up to the door of Cerlo’s house. Although it was small, the building was substantial in construction, with walls of stone and a roof of slate tiles. When Bascot knocked at the door, it was opened by a woman of mature years, with greying hair pulled tidily back under a linen coif and garbed in a dark blue gown. One of her hands was heavily bandaged and she held her arm awkwardly, resting it gingerly against her waist. Seeing the Templar badge on the shoulder of Bascot’s tunic, she quickly gave a curtsey of deference and, when he enquired after Cerlo, told him she was the mason’s wife and, if he would come inside, she would take him to her husband.