by Maureen Ash
Bascot thanked the infirmarian for his help, even though the information he had given brought little aid in discovering if the attack on Anselm was connected to the alehouse murders. Perhaps Bascot would never find the answers to the questions he was asking. If the priest died without regaining consciousness, it was quite possible his secrets would be taken with him into heaven.
Bascot ruminated on those secrets, if there were any, as he knocked on the door of the chamber that had been assigned to Lady Hilde.
The room was a small one, a narrow bed encircled with hangings set against one wall, a tiny clothespress and a low polished oak table. Hilde sat by the table in the one chair the chamber possessed. The elderly maidservant that had been in the hall was perched on a stool in the corner, sewing a rent in one of her mistress’ garments by the light of a thick candle. Beside her a straw pallet was neatly rolled, ready to be spread and used when her mistress should retire.
“You are well come, Templar,” Hilde said. “I have only a stool to offer for a seat, but there is a good wine I brought from home, if you will take a cup.”
Bascot accepted her offer and seated himself on the stool. The servant brought him wine. It was thin, but sweet, and he drank it gratefully, feeling its warmth drain some of the tiredness from his body.
“It is good, eh?” Hilde said, motioning for her servant to refill his cup. “It is made from damsons grown on the land left to Conal by his father. It is a small holding, but the soil is good and produces enough for the needs of the household.”
Conal’s great-aunt had discarded the close-fitting coif she had worn earlier that day, allowing her white hair to rest on her shoulder in one thick braid with only a light head-cloth for covering. She wore a loose gown of plain material, and no ornamentation of any kind. The open collar of the garment revealed her thin neck, the flesh softly wrinkled. But although her body seemed frail, there was still much strength of purpose in the straightness of her back and the gleam in her eyes.
Against the arm of her chair rested her cane, the silver raven’s head gleaming dully in the dim light. Hilde saw Bascot glance at it and smoothed the great beak with her finger. “This staff is all the wealth I have ever had. It belonged to my father, commissioned by him when a battle wound made walking difficult.” Her eyes misted at the remembrance. “My father had only two children, my brother and myself. My brother was a sickly youth, but gentle natured and I loved him. He lived just long enough to sire a son, Conal’s father Leif, before he died. And then Leif was taken too, leaving only one small boy to carry on our family name. The grief of his losses killed my father, and I vowed on his deathbed that I would look after Conal as he would have done if he had lived.”
She gave Bascot a direct look. “I have never married, Templar. I was neither comely enough nor had sufficient dower to interest any but the most niggardly of suitors. But I was never sorry, for I had Conal. And he has more than justified my love for him. I hope I will not fail him now.”
With her customary directness, she turned the conversation away from herself and to the reason she had asked Bascot to come to her chamber. “This is a sad business, Templar, and I hope it will be handled with dispatch. That is why I have asked you to come here tonight. Whoever killed those people, I am convinced—nay, I know—it was not Conal, nor Sybil. It seems to me that the quickest way to prove their innocence is to find out who is guilty. If the deed were done to pave a clear way to Philip de Kyme’s inheritance, then the killer has rid himself of both the base-born heir and Conal by his actions. I have a feeling that is where the search should be made, among those who will profit by these deaths, and I would like to offer you my assistance, if you will have it. I have lived near Lincoln all my life and have knowledge of most of the members of de Kyme’s family and their history. If you would be willing to tell me what evidence you have gathered, it may be that I can give you some insight into who would have the motive, and the opportunity, to have committed this cowardly act.”
Lady Hilde spoke, as she had in the hall, in a blunt fashion. Bascot considered her offer. She had a sharp mind, of that Bascot was sure, and she also had what he did not, knowledge of the background and character of each of the people involved. He was also confident that, apart from her conviction that Conal was innocent, she would give him what information she possessed in an unbiased manner, a pleasant prospect after the frustrating attempts at extracting details from the alewife and Isaac, the Jew. He signalled for his wine cup to be refilled and ruminated for a few moments before making a decision.
“I think your opinions might be useful, lady,” he said at last. “And a recounting of the facts that have been discovered thus far may assist me in marshalling my own thoughts into a more coherent order.” Taking a deep draught from his wine cup he then told her all that had happened since that morning just a scant few days before when he and Ernulf had gone to examine the bodies on the alehouse floor.
Lady Hilde heard him through without interruption as he told of his difficulties with Agnes, of Gianni finding the scrap of material in the alehouse yard and how he had become convinced that the bodies had been taken there in empty ale barrels and how, through Philip de Kyme’s secretarius , William Scothern, the identity of the two strangers had been determined. He also told her of his visit to Isaac and how he was convinced that all three of the victims had been somehow abducted while travelling along the Torksey road. Finally he told her of the attack on Father Anselm and his rather tenuous suspicion that it might somehow be linked to the alehouse murders and of the lies that had been told by the prostitute Gillie and of her subsequent disappearance along with Brunner, the stewe-holder.
As Bascot’s words came to a halt, Hilde picked up her cane and rose from her chair, waving away his offer of assistance and motioning for her maid, who had jumped up to help, to remain where she was. “I think better on my feet, poor creatures that they are. A few paces will suffice to order my mind.”
She trod slowly the short distance to the far end of the room and back, then stopped in front of Bascot. “You have met the nephew, Roger de Kyme?”
“This morning, lady. He had his son, Arthur, with him. There was also a cousin, Alan de Kyme, in the company.”
“A poxy crew, all of them,” Hilde said. “Roger more than most, along with that whey-faced son of his. Alan is little better. They all of them fawn on Philip to gain his favour and he, self-pitying wretch that he is, responds in kind, lapping up their commiserations for his sorrows as though they were sincere. I am sure either Roger or Alan would be more than capable of murder if they foresaw future benefits.”
She thought for a moment, standing motionless. “I believe that Roger is in debt to the Jews. And Alan could be also. They both have good reason for not wishing the promise of a wealthy inheritance to pass to another.”
“And if de Kyme should proclaim one of them his heir—it would be a collateral of enough strength to enable more to be borrowed,” Bascot said, agreeing with her reasoning. He had formed similar opinions himself that morning in de Kyme’s manor house. “Their whereabouts that day must be looked into.”
“Yes,” Hilde agreed, “but it could be they used hired minions. There are many such about Lincoln these days, just as there are in the rest of England.” She shook her head. “The lawful days of King Henry are long past. Since his death first Richard, and now John, have not kept the order that their father did.”
“I do not think underlings were used to commit these murders,” Bascot said thoughtfully. “If I am correct and the victims were taken—either with willingness or by coercion—on the Torksey road, then it must have been by someone who would not arouse the suspicions of the sheriff’s guard. Patrols are carried out regularly, and often. Anyone seeming to be on unlawful business would have been noticed by them and challenged.”
“Unless it was one of their servants, claiming to be on a legitimate errand for their master.”
Bascot shook his head. “Possibly, but secret murder is a
dangerous undertaking to entrust to a servant. If caught they could implicate their master and, if successful, such knowledge could be used as a threat to gain preferential treatment.”
He paused for a moment. “There is also one aspect of this murder that has bothered me from the beginning. Why were the bodies taken into Lincoln and left in the alehouse? Surely it would have been far better to have left them in the greenwood. They may or may not have been discovered eventually, but the purpose of eliminating Sir Philip’s heir would have been accomplished. It speaks of a need for them to be found, and found quickly. But, if that is so, then why remove all identification from the corpses?”
Lady Hilde sat down, obviously tired from the long day and her few brief moments of pacing. After ruminating a space she said, “Your questions are the very same ones to which I gave much thought while I was waiting for you. There are two other persons besides Roger and Alan de Kyme who may hope to gain by these deaths. One is obvious, the other not.” She gave Bascot a challenging stare. “The first is Philip de Kyme himself,” she said.
“But it is he who has laid the charge against Conal and Lady Sybil,” Bascot protested.
“Yes. And what better way to rid yourself of an unwanted wife and stepson? Much quicker than trying to dissolve the marriage through a weak claim of consanguinity. Such a process can take years. If he has the prospect of another wife in mind, he might be in haste to formalize the marriage. Lust is a powerful goad, especially to a man who is past his prime.”
“But to kill his own son, illegitimate or not—well, at the very least, is it not a rather drastic method of obtaining freedom from a wife?”
“If the boy actually was his son,” Hilde replied shrewdly. “We have only his word for that, and it was a nebulous identification at best. That may, or may not, be the answer to your second question. From what you tell me, he claimed the boy to be his own through the recognition of a cheap silver brooch. And you yourself helped to confirm it by identifying the origin of the clothing worn by the dead young man and his companion. Is it not an easy matter to obtain some garments made in La Lune, then lure to Lincoln a simple peasant and his wife from some village well away from these parts, promising work or perhaps a small quantity of silver as an inducement? They are then abducted, poisoned and left to be found in a public place. And also stabbed after death. Poison is a woman’s weapon, the sword a man’s. The use of both points to both genders having a hand in the murders. De Kyme conveniently pretends grief, followed by rage, charging his wife and stepson with the slaying. He has accomplished his aim—to free himself of a barren wife and wed another on whom he may beget a son of his own loins.”
Bascot had to admit there was an element of possibility in her conjectures. “The secretarius, Scothern, would have to be privy to the matter, if that is what was done.”
“Not necessarily, Templar. You told me the letters were said to have been despatched with a retainer of de Kyme’s, then by ship, entrusted to the captain. The usual way for any missive not of great import. But the letters may never have been sent at all, and the secretarius could simply have been told that an answer had been received without actually seeing it arrive. Scothern may have done no more than pen the letters and read the ones that came in answer. He need have known nothing.”
“De Kyme is not literate. Someone else must have written the replies supposed to come from the boy’s mother.”
Lady Hilde shrugged. “Not very difficult to find a clerk in any town hereabouts to write a letter. He would not be interested in the contents, only his fee.”
Bascot pondered for a moment. “It could be as you say. I must find out if the boy that was killed was actually Hugo. If, indeed, such a person as Hugo ever existed.”
“A difficult task, Templar. The lands in Maine are in turmoil at the moment, what with our new king’s continental subjects rebelling at every turn. And did you not say that the last letter claimed that the boy’s mother was intending to embark on a pilgrimage? If the missives were falsified, this is a convenient ploy to cover her absence in La Lune. On the other hand, if the story is true, it is possible she may not be there to confirm or deny the truth of the matter.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, pondering. “Perhaps I can persuade the Templars to help. They have stations in nearly every large town in Christendom. I will ask the local master to send an enquiry on my behalf. To Compostella, if necessary. The Templar resources are large and efficient. If a deception has been carried out as to the boy’s identity, it may be that they will be able to discover it, or even prove that the dead boy was genuinely de Kyme’s son.”
“A slim hope, and one that will take some time to uncover, even with the Order’s help,” Hilde replied.
“You mentioned two suspects, Lady Hilde. Who is the other?”
Hilde took some time to answer. When she did, her response surprised Bascot. “The other is Hugh Bardolf,” she said.
At her companion’s look of disbelief, she added, “You are a newcomer here, Templar. I have known these people a long time. Bardolf is a greedy man, greedy for power. He has a daughter, Matilda, and is touting for a husband for her with all the voracity of a ribbon seller hawking a tray of shoddy goods. She is not an unattractive girl, but spiteful by nature and, rumour has it, not above giving her favours lightly. But her father is an ambitious man. Whether he is aware of his daughter’s unchaste behaviour I do not know, but even if he is, it would not deter him. He already has much land and wants more. De Kyme wants an heir and Matilda needs a husband. Bardolf would see such a match as a gift from God. And I do not think he would be averse to enlisting the devil’s aid in helping him to accomplish it.”
“It seems an extreme length to go to on the hope of a liaison that could only be a tenuous promise at best,” Bascot remarked.
“Ah, but is it, Templar? Has the fair Matilda already warmed de Kyme in his bed? That she is rumoured to have done the same with others might suggest that she has. And she is young, and of a good family, if not as high-placed as his own. She would be an ideal wife for de Kyme in her father’s eyes and I am sure Bardolf could be persuasive enough to make Philip see it that way. But he would need to be free of Sybil first.”
Bascot leaned back and drained the final dregs of wine in his cup. “You have given me much to think of, lady. And there is much that must be done, if I am to ascertain the whereabouts of all these people on the day the murders were committed.”
“If you are agreeable, Templar, I would like to aid you in this matter. I am not as mobile as you are, even with your injured leg, but I am privy to one place that you are not. The solar. Women love to prattle and so do their servants. Between myself and Freyda there”—she gestured to the maidservant—“we could glean much from any tongues that can be encouraged to wag.”
Bascot laughed despite himself. He could not imagine Lady Hilde engaging in cosy idle conversation with anyone. She was too intimidating. The old woman laughed with him. “I know your thoughts, Templar, but I can be amiable—if I wish. Will you accept my offer?”
Bascot told her he would and, as he bid her goodnight, found himself in a more hopeful frame of mind than he had been since the whole devil’s brew had begun.
Twenty
THE TEMPLAR LINCOLN HEADQUARTERS, OR PRECEPTORY, was situated in an enclave just north of Eastgate, near the Priory of All Saints. Behind a high wall with a stout gate lay a chapel, dormitory, stable, storehouse, armoury and a square patch of ground used for exercise. Early the next morning Bascot presented himself at the gate and, after being admitted with a friendly wave by the guard on duty, went through to the outer yard. The familiar stench of horse dung and human sweat gave him a wrench of nostalgia and took him back to the day he had taken his vows to join the Order. How happy he had been then, looking forward to the joy of using his strength and skill to fight for Christ while at the same time satisfying his own longing for the inner peace of a monk’s life. Disillusionment had been slow to come, but come it had, already s
etting in before he had been captured by the Saracens. Now he wished he could return to that time of his youth and feel again the sweet savour of promise.
On the practice ground two Templar men-at-arms, in long tunics of brown, were putting a pair of new recruits through a drill with short sword and shield under the watchful eye of a black-robed serjeant. Two Templar knights, clad in the white surcoats that denoted their higher rank, stood watching. Of the third rank of the Order, that of chaplain, identified by tunics of green, only one was to be seen, hurrying towards the round stone building that was the chapel, glancing as he went at the top layer of a sheaf of parchment held between his gloved hands. Even though the day was hot, the gloves could never be removed, except to don a clean replacement, for the hands of the priests must always be kept in a pristine condition to serve Holy Communion.
From the stables came the shrill sound of a horse neighing in anger, followed by the thud of shod hooves hitting solid timber. Bascot went towards the sound. He was looking for the officer in charge, the preceptor, and if he was to find him anywhere it would be in the stable.
At the end of a row of horse stalls, illuminated dimly in the gloom, stood a group of men. Two were grooms, holding with difficulty the reins of a wild-eyed grey stallion. A Templar serjeant was trying to get a saddle on the animal’s back, dodging to and fro in an effort to escape flying hooves and bared teeth. Watching the spectacle and, from the grin on his face, enjoying it mightily, was the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon.
“Come on, Hamo, get that saddle on his back,” he yelled to the red-faced serjeant. “Not going to let a horse win a battle, are you? Get on with it, man.”
The serjeant, as angry as the horse now, wrenched the reins from the frantic clutch of the groom and pulled the animal’s head down cruelly, forcing it onto its forelegs. As the stallion let out his breath in a whuff of defeat, the serjeant threw the saddle on its back, gave his captive a savage kick in the testicles and pulled the straps into position, securing them before the horse could recover. Handing the reins to one of the grooms, he stepped back and watched with a satisfied smile as the stallion regained its feet and stood on wobbly legs, breathing hard.