The Alehouse Murders

by Maureen Ash

  For Bascot, his first months as a warrior monk had lived up to his expectations. He had been attached to a Templar contingent that had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land, and the battles along the way, at Sicily and Cyprus, had satisfied his conviction of the rightness of his decision. He had still felt this way when the army had reached their destination and had begun the tremendous task of trying to retrieve Jerusalem from the infidels. This ebullience had carried him along until the siege of Acre. There, on a hot August day, on the plains outside the conquered city, he had watched in horrified amazement as King Richard had ordered the slaughter of nearly three thousand prisoners taken as hostage. Bascot had felt his stomach churn with a sickness that had never before assailed him, not even on the day he had first plied his sword and drawn the life’s blood of an armed enemy. Amongst the prisoners were many women and children and they were slain as mercilessly as their men folk. He had finally fled the bloody scene when the lifeless bodies were being methodically gutted in a search for gold that the victims may have swallowed in an attempt to hide it. Others in the Templar contingent had been as shocked as he but, although the Templars were not under the king’s command and were answerable only to the head of their own order, their master, Robert de Sable, was a friend of King Richard’s and they had continued, despite the stigma of the massacre, to accompany the king on his mission. It was about that time that Bascot had begun to question the depth of his devotion to the Order, and his subsequent capture and imprisonment had done nothing to help him find any answers.

  Now he was confronted by a different kind of riddle and, in order to solve it, needed to fathom the machinations of a mind that would secretly plot the killing of four people. A spark of his old anger at being manipulated by the intrigues of others rose within him and he encouraged it, making a firm resolution that he would not let any obstacle deter him from being the victor in this battle to apprehend the assassin. And he would fortify himself for the fray ahead with the best weapons he had, the mail and sword of a knight of Christ.

  Attempting to dismiss the gloomy and introspective thoughts from his mind, Bascot distracted himself by noting the terrain that bordered the road upon which they were travelling. After crossing the Fossdyke they followed the course of the Trent river, on the western side of which a fringe of forest began, sweeping away in a sporadic growth of trees to become the northern tip of Sherwood Forest. They passed a few hamlets with the open spaces of tilled fields around them, but there were many places where alder and oak grew, as well as the drooping branches of willow at the river’s bank, and there was dense undergrowth that would provide perfect concealment from the road. Had it been in one of these spots that the murderer had waited, hidden, until his victims should come into view? It would be easy to appear behind them, as though travelling the same route, and engage them in conversation. But where had they then been taken? As Isaac had said, the road was well patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Bascot and his escort had already passed a pair of Roget’s men, and he could see two more ahead, riding slowly north in a circuit that would no doubt end at Torksey.

  The day was hot and Bascot did not press the pace out of deference to their mounts. About an hour after they had passed through Torksey they approached Philip de Kyme’s demesne. Outside the palisade that surrounded his manor house an orderly and prosperous looking village was spread. The cottages were sturdily built of wattle and daub and a meeting hall of reasonable size stood in the center, two stories high and constructed of timber. There was a quantity of pigs, geese and some penned sheep which all looked fat and healthy, as did the inhabitants, who doffed their caps respectfully as the group of horsemen cantered past.

  Bascot rode down the track of packed earth that led through the village and up to the gates of the manor, Ernulf at his right hand and the two men-at-arms behind. The gateward let them through, once they had identified themselves and stated their business, giving one blast on a signal horn to announce their arrival. Inside the bailey de Kyme’s steward met them and called a groom to see to the stabling of their horses. The manor house itself was impressive, with corner turrets built of stone, a central hall of timber and a massive oak door reinforced with iron plates. The steward led the way into the hall which, since it was not yet mealtime, was bare of tables except for a large one that sat on the dais and was a permanent fixture. Directing the serjeant and two men-at-arms to a corner where there was a keg of ale, the steward led Bascot to the other end of the hall. There a group of men were seated around an unlit fireplace, drinking wine. A chessboard lay nearby, its pieces set ready for a game.

  At the center of the group sat de Kyme, richly dressed and, to judge by his high colour, already blown with wine. His greying locks hung lankly and his mouth was slack. Next to him sat a man Bascot did not recognise. He had a wide fleshy face and hatchet-shaped nose below a thatch of black hair cropped in a haphazard fashion. Next to him was a lad of perhaps fourteen years, enough alike in appearance, especially about the nose, to be his son. On de Kyme’s left sat another stranger, this one above middle height and with red hair and a foxy expression. Sitting beside this stranger Bascot was surprised to see Hugh Bardolf and, next to him, William de Rollos, husband to Nicolaa de la Haye’s sister, Ermingard. Bardolf’s loose-limbed body was sprawled neatly in his seat, and with more than a glimmer of interest in his eyes he watched Bascot approach, while de Rollos gave the Templar only a curt nod of greeting and flicked his eyes away, as though embarrassed at being found in de Kyme’s hall.

  “You are well come, Templar,” de Kyme said, his speech slurring slightly. Calling to a servant to bring more wine and another cup for his guest, he then introduced Bascot to his companions. The burly man on his left was, he said, his nephew Roger de Kyme and the boy his son Arthur, while the red-haired individual was a cousin, Alan de Kyme. “Bardolf and de Rollos you will already know,” he added, lifting his cup in a salutary gesture in their direction.

  He looked up at Bascot. “I hope you have come to tell me that proof has been found of my wife’s guilt. Even now, the son of mine that she killed lies in my chapel awaiting burial. That bitch, to take from me the one thing above all that I desire. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a witness to Sybil’s perfidy, or that of her hellhound son. They are a devilish pair, as anyone here will tell you.”

  Roger de Kyme and his son both nodded in agreement, as did Alan de Kyme. Hugh Bardolf held himself aloof from committal to the baron’s opinion, keeping his expression pleasant but devoid of emotion while de Rollos stared into his wine cup.

  “I have found no proof of their complicity as yet,” Bascot replied carefully. “It seems likely, however, that Hugo was on the Torksey road when he and his wife were detracted from their journey, possibly near your manor.”

  De Kyme banged his cup down on the carved wooden arm of his chair, spilling wine as he did so. “I knew it, by God. The boy was nearly here when that she-devil got hold of him. Ah, did ever a man have such misfortune as I? Once here he would have been safe, I would have seen to that. That bitch . . .”

  Here de Kyme trailed off as self-pity and wine fumes robbed him of speech. His nephew, Roger, spoke to him consolingly. “Do not distress yourself, Uncle. Soon you will be free of her, and Conal. Time enough then to think of the future.”

  “Roger is right, Philip,” Hugh Bardolf drawled. “You have heirs aplenty—two right here in the persons of Roger and Alan. Both of them have sons, although Alan’s boy is young still. And you are not old, man. You may yet have one of your own. If you marry again.”

  As Bardolf spoke Roger swung an angry face in his direction. Bascot remembered that Bardolf was seeking a suitable husband for his daughter, Matilda.

  “Whether Sybil and her brat are found guilty or not, it will still be a lengthy business for my uncle to rid himself of his wife,” Roger spat. “He must needs think of his estates. They would be held in wardship by the king if aught should happen to him and there is no heir declared.”

 
“A deplorable state.” Hugh Bardolf chuckled as he spoke. “But your uncle is in good health yet. He has time aplenty to spawn sons, especially if the new wife is young, and comes from a family known for its fecundity.” Since the size of Bardolf’s brood of children was well known, this was a pointed remark and not taken well by de Kyme’s nephew.

  De Rollos looked increasingly uncomfortable as Roger turned his angry face away from Bardolf and took another pull at his wine cup. De Kyme’s cousin, Alan, kept his silence, his pale brown eyes sly and cunning as they darted back and forth from his host to the rest of the company. Roger’s son Arthur looked defiantly ahead of him, hatchet nose high in the air in imitation of his father.

  Philip de Kyme looked blearily up at Bascot. “If you haven’t come to tell me you have proof of my wife’s guilt, Templar, then why are you here?”

  Tired of the baron’s maudlin attitude and still feeling remnants of his earlier irritation, Bascot answered him with little patience. “I have come to see the letters written by Hugo’s mother. It is possible they will give some hint of how Lady Sybil or Conal could have found out about your illegitimate son’s existence.”

  De Kyme nodded drunkenly. “Yes. A common acquaintance here in Lincoln, perhaps. Some merchant the boy was to travel with that had a loose tongue. I will send for Scothern. He has the letters in his safekeeping.”

  As a servant was sent scurrying for the secretarius, Bardolf gave Bascot a lazy smile. “You are assiduous in your task, Templar. I wish you joy of it.”

  “There is no joy in murder, Bardolf,” Bascot said shortly, “and still less for those who profit from the deed.”

  The pretence of amiability dropped from Bardolf’s expression as he pushed himself up straighter in the chair, seeking whether the Templar’s answer was directed at himself or not. De Rollos put a hand on his companion’s arm as Bascot’s own hand dropped casually to the sword at his belt. Just then William Scothern appeared and Bardolf, thinking better of testing the strength of the insult that might have been contained in Bascot’s remark, relaxed as the secretarius came to stand behind his master’s chair.

  “Sir Bascot has come to see the correspondence you exchanged with Hugo’s mother, William,” de Kyme said, his mazed senses momentarily sobered by the imminent clash between one of his guests and the Templar. “Take him to my chamber and show her letters to him.”

  Bascot was not loath to leave the group behind him. They reminded him of the vultures that had gathered over the corpses on the plains outside Acre. With the exception, perhaps, of William de Rollos who, as far as Bascot could determine, would have little to gain from the death of de Kyme’s bastard son or the imminent disposal of his wife and stepson. His presence here was puzzling.

  Scothern led Bascot to an upper chamber in one of the manor house’s corner turrets. The room was well appointed, with a large bed and bolster covered in good linen and sweet-scented rushes strewn on the floor. The secretarius went to a locked coffer standing on the floor against the far wall. Opening it with a key taken from the scrip at his belt, Scothern removed a small number of parchment rolls and placed them on a nearby table. Beside them he laid several sheaves of parchment covered in writing and tapped them with a forefinger.

  “These are the copies of the letters that Sir Philip sent to Hugo’s mother, Eleanor. The others are her replies. You will find they are in the order of their dating.”

  Bascot motioned to the coffer. “These have been kept locked away all the time Sir Philip was in correspondence with the boy’s mother?”

  “They have,” he affirmed. “Only Sir Philip and myself had access to them.” Scothern’s genial freckled face was drawn in lines of tautness and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.

  “Is Sir Philip literate?” Bascot asked.

  Scothern shook his head. “He can sign his name, and scan the tallies of some of his holdings, but not much more.”

  “Then you will have written all of his letters and read the replies for his benefit?” The secretarius nodded. “How did your master locate the boy’s mother? It would seem she had been gone many years from Lincoln.”

  “Her father was a perfume maker, and Sir Philip knew that he had relations in Maine and also believed that was where she was sent when . . . her condition . . . became obvious. I made enquiries among the merchants of Lincoln and, from the information I garnered, we discovered that it was most likely she was in the town of La Lune. Sir Philip directed that a letter be sent there—to the provost of the town—asking that he make an attempt to locate the lady he was looking for. Not much later we had a reply from a priest—the lady apparently lived in his parish—and Sir Philip sent a letter, written at his direction by myself, for the priest to forward to her.”

  “I see.” Bascot picked up one of the scrolls. It was neatly dated on the outside with the inscription of a day in early April. “This is the first one received from her?”

  Scothern nodded and Bascot unrolled the letter and scanned the contents. The scribing was neat, probably written by a clerk or priest. It was in formal language, thanking her former lover for his interest in their son and telling how she had, with the help of relatives, been able to follow her father’s trade of perfume maker. She went on to say that she had never married, that her whole existence had revolved around Hugo and that she had never let him forget that his father was of the English nobility. He was a fine boy, she had appended, whom she had managed to have educated and who had repaid her efforts by being hardworking and honest. The letter closed by saying that she hoped one day Philip would want to meet his son and that they looked forward to further communications from him.

  In all, it was a letter written with almost fawning polite-ness and hinted at the underlying hope of some gain from the resumption of de Kyme’s interest. Philip’s reply was enthusiastic, expressing a desire to see his son and offering to pay the expenses of the boy’s trip to England. Eleanor’s reply to this letter was effusive, as was the next, and last, one. She told him the boy would journey as soon as he could to Lincoln and would bring his pregnant wife with him. She thanked him for his generosity and said that, once Hugo was safely on his way, she would be going on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in Compostella to thank God for her boy’s good fortune in being reunited with his father.

  “That Hugo’s mother was going on a journey was not mentioned when Sir Philip learned that it was his son who had been murdered,” Bascot said to Scothern.

  “I believe he had forgotten,” the secretarius replied. “He was so distraught, I think he gave little thought to how much Hugo’s mother would be grieved.”

  “Has any attempt been made to inform her?” Bascot asked, noting again the clerk’s seeming nervousness as he replied.

  “Sir Philip bade me write a letter to the priest at La Lune. When she returns I have no doubt he will tell her the sad news.”

  Scothern busied himself rerolling Eleanor’s letters and started a little when Bascot told him that he would take them back with him to Lincoln for it was probable they would be needed when the charge was brought against Lady Sybil and Conal at the assizes. The clerk’s edginess irritated Bascot and finally he said, “What is it, Scothern? You quiver like a deer that has scented the hounds. Is there something you are not telling me?”

  The clerk shook his head vigorously. “No. No, Sir Bascot. It is only . . .”

  “Out with it,” Bascot prompted.

  “It is only that I wonder if I did the right thing in telling you my suspicions about the identity of the two murdered young people. Perhaps it would have been better had they been left unknown. When the boy did not turn up Sir Philip would perhaps have thought he had not come after all, or that he had perished somewhere on the journey long before he reached Lincoln.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bascot asked.

  Scothern shook his head again, and his reply, when it came, was hesitant. “I never thought that Sir Philip would think Lady Sybil and Conal had anyt
hing to do with the boy’s death. And now, Roger and Alan de Kyme, they . . .”

  As his voice trailed off, Bascot felt empathy for the clerk. “All and sundry gather like beggars at a funeral feast, do they not? You fear that whichever way this turns out, those who are not satisfied with the result will turn on you as being the instigator of their misfortune?”

  “In the days before heralds were honoured for their craft, it was not unusual for a lord to have the bearer of bad tidings put to death,” Scothern replied, his full mouth drawn into a tight line.

  Before Bascot could make any response there was a light footfall at the door. The Templar swung on his heel, cursing the stab of pain in his ankle as he did so, turning the sighted side of his face towards the person that had entered. It was Isobel Scothern. She had a trail of gowns over one arm and a clutch of ribbons in the other. She gave Bascot a cool look.

  “My sister is here to gather some clothing for Lady Sybil,” Scothern explained. “Her mistress did not take many garments with her on the journey to Lincoln.”

  “Neither did I, brother. We did not expect to make such a long stay.”

  With barely concealed contempt she gave Bascot an aloof nod of acknowledgement, then spoke again to Scothern. “I have nearly completed my task, but Lady Sybil instructed me to also bring some jewellery that she left here. It would seem to have been taken from the casket where it is usually kept. Do you know where it is?”

  “I do, Bella. It is locked away and Sir Philip has ordered that it remain so. He said that most of it was his gift to her on their wedding day and, since she has not proved a true wife, he does not feel any obligation to leave it in her possession.” Scothern stammered over the words.