The Alehouse Murders

by Maureen Ash

  “I see. So your most puissant lord intends not only to strip his lady of her good name, but also of the few paltry trinkets he gave her as a bride gift.” The scorn in Isobel’s voice was like ice. “I will tell Lady Sybil your words, Will. I wish you well of your master.”

  With her parting remark she left the room, a trace of honeysuckle perfume lingering after her. Scothern turned to the Templar. “That is another problem with my revelation to you, Sir Bascot. My sister and I have become estranged over it.”

  “Are you surprised at that?” Bascot asked.

  “Not really,” Scothern replied miserably. “Females are ever capricious.”

  Nineteen

  GIANNI SAT IN HIS PLACE AMONGST THE CASTLE hounds and peered out from behind one of the shaggy heads to stare at the people seated with Lady Nicolaa at the table on the dais. The midday meal had already been served and the castellan was lingering over wine and sweetmeats with the newly come guests. Gianni had never seen any of these people in Lincoln before. They were two men of middle age, both tall and fair-haired, and an elderly woman who was almost as tall as the men but, unlike them, was thin and fond of punctuating her speech by thumping on the floor with the short staff she carried as an aid in walking. The cane was mounted on top with the head of a raven fashioned in silver. Gianni watched as her fingers clenched and unclenched in frustration around the sharp pointed beak as she spoke.

  As far as Gianni could tell, Lady Nicolaa was trying to placate the two men, who looked enough alike to be brothers. Gianni knew they were speaking about the murder of the people in the alehouse and, since his master was concerned in the affair, he strained his ears to try and hear what was being said over the scratchings and grunts of the dogs.

  Bascot had left early that morning, before these new visitors had come. Gianni did not like it when the Templar was away from him, even for a short space, and he almost always took refuge with the hounds until his master returned or went to sit by himself in their tiny room at the top of the old keep. Even now, after he had been with the Templar for almost a year, he mistrusted any other human companion. He had too many memories from his childhood of the blows and curses that had rained on him when he had begged for scraps of food, and happenings far worse from some of those who had at first seemed inclined to be generous, to ever feel entirely comfortable with any other person.

  He had even distrusted the Templar at first, although he had snatched the loaf of bread that Bascot had held out to him before running away to eat it. It was only when the Templar had come again the next day, this time with some cooked meat wrapped in a cloth, that Gianni had begun to feel that the one-eyed limping stranger meant him no harm. Bascot had laid the food down in the middle of the wharf among the pilings where Gianni spent his nights, then had moved a distance away, keeping at bay the other beggars clamouring for his largesse, until Gianni had crept from his hiding place and taken the bundle. With an amused grin, Bascot had watched while Gianni, his eyes flicking warily back and forth from the Templar to the hungry gaze of the other beggars, had wolfed down the contents of the parcel until there was none left. Still the Templar had not made a move that was threatening. He had just nodded his head and turned away. At a safe distance, Gianni had followed his benefactor and seen him turn into an inn near the docks. All night the boy had sat, waiting, until in the morning the Templar had reappeared and handed him a pear and some cheese.

  From that day on, Gianni had never left the Templar’s side. He had been fed and clothed, taught to read and write, and had willingly clambered up behind his new master to travel on horseback the many days and nights it had taken to reach this strange land across the Narrow Sea. To Gianni, with only memories of pain and hunger throughout the duration of his young life, the Templar was a combination of the father he could not remember and the God he had never been able to find. Now, when de Marins went away from his company, the Palermo urchin was always uneasy until he returned.

  Up on the dais, the old woman was again banging her stick and this time her voice carried clearly to Gianni. She was speaking to one of the two men who had come with her and seemed to be berating him.

  “You Danish! Always the same, hold fast with one hand and reach to take more with the other. Sybil and Conal did not commit this crime, I tell you. If it is her dower property you are concerned with, then know that it will never be returned if she is found guilty. How can you think of oak trees when it is the honour of your family you should be defending?” The old lady banged the floor with her stick again. “She would have had short shrift at your board, Magnus. Neither you or Ailwin are known for your generosity.”

  With this last riposte she threw back her head, causing the white linen of her old-fashioned headdress to flutter around her thin shoulders as she added another insult. “But what else can you expect from Danish stock? The people of Norway know that to their cost.”

  Ailwin spoke again. “Tante Hilde, your family and mine have all lived in England for many generations now. Let us forget these old feuds of our ancestors.”

  “To forget one’s heritage is to take away the meaning of life,” the old woman expostulated. “I am the only member left of Conal’s father’s family, and he is the one that will carry on our name. For him I will fight with all the strength I have left.”

  On saying this, the old woman pushed herself to her feet, using her cane as a lever. A woman servant of middle age rushed to her side from below the dais, but Hilde brushed her away and stood proudly erect. As she turned to leave, there was the sound of voices at the entrance to the hall and Conal and his mother came in, followed by Bascot and Ernulf.

  Conal strode immediately to Hilde’s side, taking her in his arms and embracing her. “Tante, I am pleased to see you.”

  “And I you,” Hilde said as she reached up a gnarled hand and stroked his cheek. “You grow more like your father every day.”

  Gently he led her back to her seat, then greeted his uncles. Sybil did the same, then both she and Conal sat down beside Hilde.

  Gianni crept forward now, closer to where Bascot and Ernulf stood. Nicolaa de la Haye beckoned to the Templar and introduced him to her guests.

  “These are Lady Sybil’s brothers, Ailwin and Magnus Redwison. Lady Hilde is great-aunt to Conal. His father was her nephew, her brother’s son.” She explained Bascot’s role in the matter of the crime with which Conal and his mother were charged. “Sir Bascot is gathering evidence to place before the judges at the assizes. It is to be hoped he will find some information that will prove your sister’s innocence, my lords,” she said to Magnus and Ailwin, “but so far, none has been forthcoming.” She looked at Bascot. “Unless, de Marins, there is something new since last we spoke . . .”

  “Nothing, lady,” Bascot replied, “but neither is there anything to prove their guilt.”

  “Exactly,” burst out Hilde, leaning forward and thumping her cane to emphasize her point. “That is because they have none. Tell me, Templar, have you found any indication of someone else’s involvement? Another party who would profit by this boy’s death? There are other heirs to de Kyme’s estates, are there not? A nephew and some cousins? Where were they when this deed was done? Does he have a leman who hopes to become his wife if he is free of Sybil?”

  Bascot smiled at the old woman. He liked her forthright-ness and, since his visit to de Kyme that morning, her thoughts echoed his own. There were others beside Conal for whom the inheritance of the baron could provide a strong enough lure to tempt them to commit murder. But to interrogate persons of the status of de Kyme’s nephew and cousin might result in harsh complaints from them at such treatment, and needed to have the direct authority of the sheriff, not just that of Nicolaa de la Haye. In answering Lady Hilde, he chose his words carefully, in order not to offend the woman who had so generously given him a place in her retinue.

  “So far, lady, my commission has been only to determine if your great-nephew and his mother could or could not have had the opportunity to commi
t the murders. But perhaps you are right, it may be worthwhile to look for another likely culprit. But to do so, I will need a warrant whose power will not be questioned. Many who are touched by this affair will not take kindly to my intervention otherwise.”

  Lady Hilde immediately understood the delicacy of his words and swung her piercing gaze on Nicolaa. “The truth must be found, and it is the duty of the sheriff to ensure that it is. And your’s also, Lady Nicolaa, as keeper of the king’s castle and his peace. Will you persuade your husband to this course?”

  Nicolaa considered the suggestion, not taking offence at the imperiousness in the older woman’s tone and the unnecessary reminder of the obligations of her office. Finally she nodded in agreement. “There is sense in what you say, de Marins. And, since Conal is of knight’s rank, there should be no complaint if those of equal status are questioned. I have no doubt Gerard will agree. He is as anxious as I to have this matter resolved. I pledge the warrant in his stead, and those here are witness to my words. May God give you His divine assistance.”

  So saying, she rose from her seat, tired of the subject and the wrangling that had accompanied it, but conscious also of the courtesy due her guests. “I have no doubt we can all do with a brief rest before the evening meal. There are chambers above that you may consider your own while you are in Lincoln and my servants are at your bidding.”

  Ailwin and Magnus sighed with relief at the dismissal, and Conal assisted his great-aunt to her feet and helped her down the two shallow stairs to the floor of the hall. As they passed Bascot, the old lady paused. “You are a man of honour, Templar, I think. It would please me if, when you have finished your duties for the day, you would attend me. It might prove profitable for us to have speech together on this matter.”

  Bascot had been amused by the manner in which Hilde had spoken to the others for, although haughty, she had comported herself with courage and a keen perception. And, he surmised, she was driven by an honest intent that was laudable. Her request to him had been couched in a more conciliatory fashion and he was intrigued by her wish to speak to him privately. He decided to humour her and nodded politely; assuring her he would do as she wished. Gianni, now standing beside him, stared with fascination at the silver raven’s head on the top of her cane as, leaning heavily on Conal’s arm, Hilde went slowly from the hall.

  It was late in the evening before Bascot began the ascent up the stairs to the chamber where Lady Hilde awaited him. The Templar was tired and his leg ached from the riding he had done that morning, and also from his walk to the priory that afternoon after he had left the company in the hall. The purpose of his visit had been to see if the priest, Father Anselm, was showing any signs of recovery. Brother Jehan led him to the injured man’s bed, explaining that his patient had still not regained consciousness and from lack of any sustenance except for a few mouthfuls of honeyed wine dribbled into his mouth, was likely to remain so until death should take him.

  “It is a strange irony that his wound has finally begun to heal,” the infirmarian said. “It is almost as though he remains unconscious of his own choosing.”

  Bascot looked down on the face of the priest. It was peaceful, smooth and unlined in repose. The Templar had judged him to be a man just a few years older than himself, but lack of food had brought a gauntness to his features that made Anselm seem closer to middle age. His hands lay one on either side of him, resting on the thick woollen blanket that served as a cover, the fingers long and sensitive. On the priest’s brow dark hair curled thickly, but his eye sockets were sunken in deep shadows. Beneath the blanket his chest rose and fell in shallow movement. What hidden failing, Bascot wondered, had prompted Anselm to don a hair shirt beneath his vestments? Was it a penance for the commission of a sin or for the pleasure of an imaginary one? Had it anything to do with the murders in the alehouse?

  “Were you acquainted with Father Anselm before this incident?” Bascot asked Brother Jehan.

  The infirmarian shook his head slightly. “I have spoken with him but twice, and that is all,” he said. “He is only recently come to Lincoln, arriving here some two years ago. Before that he was in Canterbury, I believe.”

  “And the times that you saw him, did he make mention of anything that was troubling him? Any problems he was having in his new parish, perhaps?”

  Brother Jehan gave him an uncertain look, as though asking the reason for the Templar’s questions. “I am searching for an explanation as to why he was stabbed, Brother,” Bascot said. “I had thought it to be connected to the murders in the alehouse near the church where he officiated. But I could be wrong. It might be completely unrelated, the cause instead to be found in some personal matter, even something from his past. But his injury and his death, if it comes, are just as deserving of inquiry as those of the unfortunates found on the alehouse floor. I would discover the identity of the culprit, if I can. But to do that, I need to know more about Anselm. Can you help me?”

  Jehan gave the matter a few moments thought before he answered. “It is not likely that I can for, as I said, I was not often in his company. But I will tell you the little that I know.” The infirmarian cast a brief look at his patient before he continued. “The first occasion that I met Anselm was not long after he arrived in Lincoln. A fellow cleric had advised him to enquire of me if I had a remedy for a persistent rash that had appeared on his lower extremities. He seemed to me, at that time, to be a man who was distracted, as though his thoughts were far away from his surroundings. I did not pay his demeanour much mind. It is not unusual for removal to a new parish, especially one so far from a place he might have come to regard as his home, to be unsettling for a priest. I gave him a salve to use on the rash and he left. I did not see him again until some time later.”

  Bascot noted that a frown had appeared on the infirmarian’s careworn face as he had spoken the last words, as though the second meeting had not been as unremarkable as the first. “And when was that, Brother?” he prompted.

  As Bascot spoke, Anselm stirred on the cot. He was still deep in unconsciousness, but his limbs had suddenly become restless, and his fingers began to twitch with movement. Brother Jehan immediately leaned over him, taking a moistened cloth from a bowl of water on a nearby stool and gently dabbing Anselm’s forehead, murmuring soothing words as he did so. Suddenly Anselm’s eyes flickered open, just for the briefest space, and he stared unseeingly past the two men at his bedside, seeming to focus his attention on a point beyond them. Then his eyelids closed, and he began to mutter. “Unclean. Unclean. Forever unclean.”

  Jehan continued his ministrations and Anselm slowly subsided back into his heavy sleep and the murmuring ceased. Finally the infirmarian placed the cloth back in its receptacle and straightened the covering over his patient. When he had done, he leaned back from the bed and heaved a deep sigh.

  “Always he is thus. Continually speaking of something, or someone, that is ‘Unclean.’ It is clear that his mind is greatly disturbed but there is no way of determining the cause of his anguish,” Jehan said heavily.

  Bascot let a few brief moments of silence pass before he urged the elderly monk back to his recollections of the times he had met Anselm. “You were telling me, Brother, of the second time you met Father Anselm.”

  Jehan nodded his head, unwilling to distract his attention from his patient. “Yes, I was,” he said finally. “The next occasion that I was in his company was just a few weeks before he was attacked. The rash on his legs had reappeared, more virulently this time. I suggested he try an unguent that I prepare from a plant commonly called Bee-Bread, which is red clover. He thanked me for it and went away. I never saw him again.”

  “And the second time he came, did he still seem distracted?”

  “No, he was more . . . how shall I put it . . . intense. As though a great matter was on his mind. Because of that it seemed to me that his blood might be out of balance with the other humours in his body, possibly overheating. It is often the cause of an eruptio
n on the skin. I suggested he go to a leech for bleeding, but he did not seem of a mind to take my advice. Barely paid it heed, in fact.”

  “And you had no inkling of what was troubling him?”

  Jehan shrugged. “I might be in error—that there was something amiss with him, I mean. Perhaps he had always been so. Or he may have been in the throes of an internal struggle with his conscience.” The infirmarian flicked a glance at Bascot. “You must be aware that many of us who take up the pledge to serve Christ often find the way long and hard. Thanks be to God that I have never found it so, but it is not uncommon.”

  Bascot nodded his acknowledgement of the truth of the brother’s words, thinking of his own struggles as the infirmarian continued. “But I am not in a position to judge Anselm for I hardly knew him. Except . . .”

  After a long pause, Bascot again had to prompt Jehan into speech and it was with reluctance that he explained the reason for his reticence. “What I am about to tell you is only hearsay, told to me by one of the more garrulous monks of our house. I know not of its veracity, or even if I should repeat it.” He smiled ruefully. “I berated the monk who told me, scolding him for the looseness of his tongue.”

  “Unless the matter is pertinent to the attack on Anselm, or the murders in the alehouse, you have my assurance that it shall be kept between us two,” Bascot told him.

  Jehan nodded. “Very well. It is only a small thing, but if it will help you in your quest, then it is my duty to relate it, I suppose.” He reached over and once more straightened Anselm’s cover before speaking. The stricken priest made no movement at his touch, still deep in senselessness. “It was said that Anselm was sent to Lincoln because some grave matter necessitated his removal from Canterbury. It was implied that he was in a disgrace of some sort, but for what, I do not know. The fact that he was wearing a hair shirt when he was stabbed is an indication that he was undergoing a heavy penance, but whether it was self-imposed or laid on him by his confessor . . . again, I do not know.”