by Maureen Ash
“I think he would benefit greatly from the knowledge, Maud,” Lucia said earnestly. “I know that because of Stephen’s disfigurement Ralph decided to keep him at home rather than send him to another lord for training in knighthood, but that decision has made him withdrawn in the company of others. If Stephen could use gestures to convey his wishes to your servants, and to converse with you and his father, I am sure it would swell his confidence.”
Maud’s response to the suggestion was one of agitation. Although she doted on her son, she was a timid and indecisive woman whose self-confidence had been sorely strained by the fact that the only heir she had given her husband had been marked in such a terrible manner.
“I will have to ask Ralph about your suggestion, Lucia,” Maud said, her hands fluttering ineffectually over the embroidery in her lap. “Our physician at home said I must have startled a hare while Stephen was in my womb and the malicious creature took its revenge by causing my son’s disfigurement. The doctor has made up an ointment he is sure will heal the cleft and I have been applying it every morning without fail for the last ten days.”
She looked around at the other women, her eyes full of hope. “The physician said it would take some weeks before any difference would be noticed, but I am sure the fissure in his lip is already beginning to close. If it does, then he will not need to learn any other means of communication, for he will be able to speak clearly.”
Her companions smiled at her in an attempt at reassurance but Nicolaa saw the doubt in Egelina’s face, and felt the same herself. She had heard there were occasions when a split in a newborn child’s lip could be corrected by sewing the cleft together with catgut and leaving the stitches in place until the flesh had grown together, but this was only effective if the gap was very slight and the repair done immediately after birth. Nicolaa had seen Stephen when he was just a few months old and the malformation had been a deep one; it started at the base of his nose and exposed nearly all his front teeth. And even if this rift should be improved by the physician’s ointment, the cleft in his palate would still remain. It was very doubtful he would be able to speak without distortion unless both of these deformities were corrected.
“And even if the ointment doesn’t heal his lip,” Maud said to Lucia with an unusual flash of temerity, “there would be little point in Stephen learning the gestures, for once we return home, no one except he would know what they meant.”
“But many of the movements are simple and easily comprehended, Maud,” Lucia protested, “even by those not familiar with the meaning of them. I have seen the Templar’s servant use them with many people—to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ for example, or to ask that a particular dish be passed to him when he is serving his master. Besides,” she added defiantly, “I am willing to learn them even if you are not. Then, when I am in Stephen’s company, he can convey his thoughts to me and we can have speech together.”
Lucia gave her cousin a disdainful glance as she added, “I would have thought that you, as his mother, would be anxious to do likewise.”
Egelina gave her younger daughter a reproving look for her impertinence and changed the direction of the conversation by asking Eustachia if she had made a choice of material for her wedding gown, even though a date had not yet been set for her daughter and Richard’s marriage. It was a question to which her elder daughter responded with alacrity, conscious of her mother’s purpose. The awkward moment passed but it was nonetheless obvious that Lucia’s disapproval, and the reason for it, had impressed Maud. She, in common with most people, even those of the nobility, was not literate and although Stephen had been taught to read and write by a private tutor, she could not communicate with him through the written word because of her inability to read. But if, like Lucia, she learned the gestures the Templar’s mute servant used, she would be able to hold a conversation with the son she loved so dearly. Hesitantly, in a whispered aside, Maud promised her young cousin that she would speak to her husband about the matter.
As the women fell to suggesting materials that might be suitable for Eustachia’s gown, and offering advice on trimmings, shoes and jewels, Nicolaa returned to her consideration of the motive behind the murder of the clerk. She was glad Gerard had asked Bascot de Marins to investigate the death. The Templar had a forte for uncovering the truth behind men’s actions, and if the murder was connected to embezzlement in the mint, she was sure he would discover it.
If the worst happened and de Marins found that a treasure trove was also involved in the crime, the king would need to be quickly apprised of the situation. In such an explosive situation, she decided, it would be best if she took upon herself the responsibility for doing so. She had enjoyed a long friendship with the king and, unlike Gerard and many other nobles, had a fondness for John. His suspicious nature was the result of being used as a pawn by the squabbling members of his family throughout the whole of his life; in truth he was intelligent, witty and, when the occasion demanded it, a more than competent military commander. Even though the king and Gerard were not complaisant with each other, she knew that John held her own person in high esteem and would not question her honesty. For her husband’s well-being, it was fortunate this was so.
THE WITHAM RIVER HAD FLOODED ITS BANKS WHEN the heavy rains had fallen on Lincoln two days before, and the water was just now beginning to recede as Bascot and Gianni crossed the bridge below Briggate. The ground on both sides of the river was marshy, and it was not until they took a lane that led eastward towards Canwick and the ground began to rise that their mount could step out freely, its hooves finally unhindered by the sucking mud. As they rode, the Templar spoke to Gianni over his shoulder and instructed the boy to keep his wax tablet tucked in his scrip while they were at the manor house.
“Sir Richard told me that Legerton is very conscious of his rights as an officer of the crown and can sometimes be supercilious because of it,” Bascot said to the boy. “I do not wish to make it seem we have come to interrogate him. I shall merely say I have come to ask if he has any knowledge of the reason Peter Brand was at the quarry on the night he was killed. That does not mean, Gianni, that you are not to keep your ears stretched wide, and your eyes also. If you see anything you think might be of import, store it away in your mind and write it down when we have returned to the castle.”
Bascot felt Gianni give his shoulder two gentle taps, a signal that meant he understood. Two were for yes, three for no. It was fortuitous that, because of the celebration of the feast day, Gianni had not been required to assist John Blund and Lambert in the scriptorium. The boy had a sharp intelligence that had been invaluable during the previous cases of secret murder the Templar investigated; he hoped it would prove so again.
Walter Legerton’s manor house was small in size but impressive nonetheless. Encircled by a protective wall of stone, it was set in the middle of a large yard surrounded by outbuildings that comprised stables, storehouses and a blacksmith’s forge. The house itself was a solid rectangle in shape, half-timbered and three storeys high, with the lower floor partially submerged below ground level to serve as a cellar for the storage of provisions or as a place of safety during times of unrest. The topmost floor, which was of wood, was set with wider windows than the second storey, and the eaves on the tiled roof were decorated with carvings at each corner. There were two chimneys of turret design, one at the end of each outside wall. It appeared to be either a recently erected structure or an old one that had been completely refurbished. Whichever it was, Bascot thought, it gave the impression that its owner was a man of some wealth.
The Templar was hailed by the guard on the gate and asked his name and the purpose of his visit. Once Bascot told him, the guard sent a servant running to the house and, after a few moments, Legerton’s steward appeared. Bowing low, the steward said he would be pleased to take the Templar to his master and, calling for a groom to take charge of Bascot’s horse, led his two visitors across the yard.
The main door to the house
was made of thick planks of oak, but swung easily open at the steward’s command to the doorward and, as it did so, strains of music could be heard coming from inside. Across a narrow entryway a door led into the hall, a large chamber with a high ceiling of crisscrossed oak beams where, in an open space in the middle of the room, about a dozen people were engaged in a lively dance called an estampie. At the far end, on a shallow dais, was a table at which five people—two of them young boys—were sitting. Other, smaller, tables all laid with food, and at which a number of people were seated, were scattered around the perimeter of the room.
“If you will wait here, Sir Bascot, I shall tell Master Legerton of your arrival,” the steward said and threaded his way past the dancers to the table on the dais.
Leaning down, the steward spoke in a respectful manner to the man seated in the central position. He had a full head of thick dark hair and a florid, well fleshed face. His attire was sumptuous; an expensive scarlet wool tunic enclosed his muscular frame and atop his head he wore a matching soft cap adorned with a brooch of silver filigree. As he listened to the steward, he turned his gaze in the Templar’s direction. Finally he nodded and rose from his seat. There was a look of irritation on his face as he came down the length of the room, but it was smoothed over by the time he reached Bascot.
“I am Walter Legerton,” he said. “My steward tells me you wish to speak to me privily.”
“That is correct,” Bascot told him, “and to your assayer, Simon Partager.”
“May I ask what this is about?” Legerton enquired. “As you can see, we have a number of guests—family and friends—who have come to celebrate the holy days. They will not look kindly on my deserting them.”
The exchanger’s tone was tinged with impatience and Bascot felt his choler rise. He tried to curtail it, however, and answered in a polite, if chilly, manner. “Master de Stow’s clerk, Peter Brand, was found dead yesterday in the cathedral quarry. He was murdered. Sheriff Camville has asked me to investigate the matter. I have come to ask you, and your assayer, if you have any knowledge that may assist us in apprehending his killer.”
Legerton’s face paled a little, but his response contained a hint of peevishness. “I am sorry to hear of Brand’s death, but he was a clerk. Apart from seeing him about the mint in de Stow’s company, I have barely spoken to the man. How could I be expected to know anything that would be pertinent to his murder?”
“I have been instructed to ask for information from everyone who came into contact with Brand,” Bascot replied brusquely, wondering if the exchanger was as heartless as he seemed or if his manner was a screen to hide a deeper emotion. “If you have a chamber where I may speak to you and your assayer apart from your guests, the matter should not require you to be absent from your company for more than a few minutes.”
Bascot’s tone left Legerton in no doubt that he found the exchanger’s attitude annoying. Legerton also recalled that while de Marins had said he had come on behalf of Sheriff Camville, the knight was in the temporary service of Nicolaa de la Haye, who was reputed to be on terms of great friendship with the king. In the exchanger’s position as a royal official, it would not do to jeopardize his continuance in the post by leaving himself open to complaint from anyone who had King John’s ear. He gave Bascot an assurance of his cooperation and, directing his steward to ask Partager to attend him, led the Templar to a small chamber just off the entryway. Gianni unobtrusively followed his master through the door. Although there was a brazier burning in a corner, there was little else in the room aside from a small table set with two wine cups and a large chest bound with iron bands and sealed with a stout lock.
“This is where my household accounts and duplicate records of transactions at the exchange are kept,” Legerton explained. “The room is not used for any other purpose, so we will not be disturbed.”
As Bascot nodded in response, there was a light tap at the door and the assayer, Simon Partager, entered the room. He was a man of about Bascot’s own age, mid-thirties, with a thin, sensitive face and weary eyes. His hair was light brown in colour, as was his neatly trimmed beard, and his clothing was of practical design and quality. Bascot recalled catching a glimpse of him in the exchanger’s hall a few moments before. Partager had been in the company of a fair-haired woman who was pretty of face and coy in demeanour. Although seated beside the assayer, she had been engaged in animated conversation with the man across the table from her, giving him admiring glances as they spoke together.
“Sir Bascot has just told me that Helias’s clerk, Peter Brand, has been murdered,” Legerton said to the assayer. “His body was found in the cathedral quarry yesterday and Sir Bascot has come to ask if either of us know anything that may indicate why he was killed.”
Partager’s face registered an expression of shock, but it was difficult to tell if it was genuine or feigned. The muscles in his jaw tightened for a moment and then he said, “That is terrible news. He was a likeable young man. Are you . . . are you sure he was murdered?”
“Since he was stabbed through the heart,” Bascot said dryly, “I think the assumption he was murdered can be taken as a true one.”
The Templar paused slightly to watch both men’s reaction to the gory detail and then said, “It would appear that Brand was murdered four days before Christ’s Mass, the day the snowstorm began, since he was last seen at work earlier that day. I am trying to find out why Brand was in the quarry that afternoon. Do either of you know the reason?”
Legerton did not even deign to answer. He had already said he had hardly spoken to the clerk and his impatient manner indicated he had consented to the interview with the Templar only on sufferance. Partager, however, gave a reply.
“I have no knowledge of Peter’s movements outside the mint, Sir Bascot, and know nothing of his personal affairs,” he said in a stiff manner. “He certainly never made mention, in my hearing, that he had any intention of going to the quarry on that day or at any other time.”
Bascot turned to the exchanger. “I am told you attend your office on three days of the week, Master Legerton. I presume you use the quarters above for your night’s rest at those times. Is that correct?”
The exchanger bridled a bit at the question, but answered all the same. “Yes, I do.”
“And you, Master Partager, do you stay there as well when you are at work?”
The assayer replied that he did, since there was more than one bedchamber in the lodgings. “I often stay there alone,” he added, “on those occasions when my duties require that I remain at the exchange after Master Legerton has gone home.” There was a hint of bitterness in his tone.
Bascot had noted Legerton’s unspoken objection to the query and explained his reason for asking it. “I am trying to ascertain the security of the exchange. There is reason to believe Brand was robbed at the time of his murder and since de Stow tells me the clerk did not possess a great deal of money, I am wondering if he had perhaps stolen from his place of work and was attacked for the contents of his scrip. De Stow explained the precautions that are taken to keep all the silver safe but, as you are probably aware, any determined and clever thief can find a way through even the most stringent safeguards.”
“Impossible,” Legerton expostulated. “De Stow and I have the only keys and there are guards on the premises at all times. Besides, if any was missing, it would be noticed as soon as the twice-daily inventory is done by de Stow and his clerk. . . .”
He trailed off as he realised that since the murdered man had been in a position of trust, it was possible he had, as Bascot suggested, taken advantage of the privilege to steal. “I must return immediately to Lincoln and ensure there is no shortage in the coinage I store in the mint,” he said in distraction. “Simon, find my steward and tell him to order a groom to saddle my horse. . . .”
“There is no need,” Bascot said bluntly. “I spoke with de Stow before I came here and he assures me he has taken a tally of the coinage and all is correct and ac
counted for. I am satisfied that nothing has been stolen from the mint; it is the exchange I am concerned with. Do you keep any money there that Brand may have had access to, but which is not within the moneyer’s control?”
“No, no, I do not keep any silver there,” Legerton said distractedly, still half in motion to leave the room. His face full of worry, he sought further assurance. “And you are certain that de Stow found nothing missing from the coffers?”
“Brand was killed some days ago,” Bascot told him, “and, since the moneyer has been carrying out the clerk’s duties during that time, he would quickly have discovered any shortage.”
Legerton relaxed as he heard the certainty in the Templar’s response and his former impatience returned. “Are there any other questions you wish to ask?” he said abruptly.
“Not at the moment,” Bascot replied, his words just as blunt. “If any should arise, you will be informed of the need to make yourself available, either by myself or Sheriff Camville.”
The Templar left the manor house with a feeling of unease. As the steward shut the door behind him and Gianni, he thought over his conversation with Legerton and the assayer. There had seemed to be a trace of tension underlying the exchanger’s supercilious attitude and Partager’s stilted responses. Was it due to the shock of learning the brutal manner of Brand’s death or had it been spawned by another, more ominous reason, such as a guilty conscience?