by Maureen Ash
“I don’t know how long he’s been lying there, lord,” the mason said with some agitation. “That there block beside him has been waiting to be cut into smaller pieces for some time, but we haven’t been able to work ’cause of the bad weather, so none of us have been down in the pit since before the snowstorm started. I covered him up as best I could for decency’s sake,” Cerlo added. “We’d just come to have a look at the sledge when we saw his feet sticking out.” The mason shook his head. “’Twasn’t a sight to cheer a man on such a holy day.”
“I’ll need to go down and examine him,” Bascot said and pointed to a broad opening on the far side of the quarry where the walls of the pit were much lower. “Is that the quickest way to go?”
“’Tis the only way, lord,” Cerlo replied. “You’ll have to go down Masons Row to the far end and along by the stables where we keeps the mules to reach it.”
Bascot nodded and he and Gianni remounted the grey gelding and followed Cerlo as he trudged back towards the gate and then turned down onto the main track he called Masons Row. It was a long thruway, about a mile in length, with a number of buildings at the far end, just before it turned back on itself and descended onto lower ground and led to the opening Bascot had seen.
“There’s drainage holes bored alongside of this track,” Cerlo said as they went down the stone flags of the pathway, “and sometimes they get blocked with stone dust. That’s what I come to check this morning, but it seems they’ve stayed clear.”
After traversing the breadth of the quarry, Bascot and Gianni once again dismounted and walked up to where the body lay. The quarryman gave the Templar a respectful nod and removed the sacking laid over the corpse.
The dead man was lying almost flat on his back, his left shoulder resting against the stone block. His head was tilted at an awkward angle and one leg folded beneath the other. Kneeling beside him, Bascot could see the right side of his head was crushed, but not so badly that it distorted his features. Peter Brand looked to be a young man of about twenty-five years of age, with soft contours to his cheek and brow that were almost feminine in their delicacy. A sparse beard covered his narrow chin and both it and his hair were a pale blond colour. His tunic and hose were of serviceable wool, as was his cloak, and the fabric was sodden with moisture. Tiny remnants of slush trapped in the folds of his clothing fell out and started to melt as Bascot pushed the material aside to examine the body. On the clerk’s chest, the remains of a bloodstain could be seen around a jagged slash in his tunic. Probing with his fingers, Bascot found that the wound, narrow and very deep, had been a forceful one. It angled straight into the heart, the blade slightly nicking a rib before entering the vital organ, and was most likely administered by a long, thin dagger. The man had indeed, as the mason said, been murdered.
The Templar felt a surge of outrage rise in his throat. Murder was surely the most evil of all the sins committed by mankind. It mocked the justice of God. As he thought of the terror that must have gripped Brand in the moments before the murderer struck, he could almost hear the devil laughing. It was with great difficulty that he swallowed his anger and forced himself to instruct Gianni, who was standing beside him, to write down the conclusion he had reached about the type of weapon used in the killing.
The boy complied quickly, perching himself on a nearby lump of stone before removing the wax tablet and stylus from the pouch on his belt and carefully lifting the wooden cover of the tablet to expose the surface of the wax. He then began to write his master’s description of the deathblow with a sure and steady hand. His notes would be transcribed onto parchment and the surface of the wax smoothed clean for reuse. Watching the boy’s competent movements, the Templar felt his anger slowly abate and pride in Gianni’s proficiency burgeon in its place.
It had been a little more than two years since Bascot, on his way home to England after escaping from the Saracens, had found the boy on a wharf in Palermo on the island of Sicily. Gianni had been feebly struggling with a couple of mangy dogs for possession of a dead pigeon that was no more than a mangled lump of blood and feathers. The boy had been in the last stages of starvation, his slender frame stick thin and his liquid brown eyes two dark pools of despair. It had taken all of Bascot’s patience to win the boy’s trust and persuade him to become his servant. Now Gianni was not only healthy, but had before him a promising future as a clerk.
Confident the details of the body’s condition would be recorded efficiently, Bascot returned his attention to the corpse. A cursory examination of the clerk’s head on the side that had not been crushed revealed another, slighter depression. It could have been caused by the fall, but it was also feasible the victim had been dealt a blow to his head that had rendered him unconscious before he was stabbed. Running his fingers over the dead man’s limbs, the Templar found the bones on the left side were sound, but those on the right were broken in several places and the shoulder dislocated. He looked closely at the skin of Brand’s face. It was a mottled white in colour, as were the backs of his hands and fingers, and the nails had a bluish tinge. From this and the fact that the death rigor had already come and gone, it would appear that Brand had been dead for at least two days and, as there were no traces of snow underneath the corpse, probably since before the snowstorm began four days earlier.
As Gianni noted these facts, the Templar asked Cerlo how he had been able to identify the dead man. “Was he known to you? Has he ever had occasion to visit the quarry?”
The mason shook his head. “’Tis only because Master de Stow is the moneyer, lord, and well-known about the town, as are those who work for him. As far as I know, his clerk has never been to the quarry at all.” Cerlo cocked his head in the peculiar manner Bascot had noted before and looked toward the quarryman for confirmation.
“Aye, lord, that’s so,” the quarryman agreed. “Every one of us is interested in the men who makes the coins we’re paid with. Must be a little like working in heaven to be surrounded by so much richness every day.” He looked around him at the stones littering the quarry floor, and added, “On days when ’tis high summer, workin’ down here can seem just the opposite, like slaving in the pit of hell.”
“And you are certain neither of you saw him in the quarry in the days before the snow fell?”
When both men shook their heads, Bascot said he would need to question the other men who worked in the pit to find out if any of them had noted the clerk’s presence on the work site, but Cerlo forestalled him.
“If Brand was killed during the two days before the storm began,” he told Bascot, “there were none of the other men here. The pit was shut down because the winch broke and we had to stop work while new parts was made for it. Then the storm came before the parts was ready, so the quarry’s been closed for all that time. ’Twas only us two stayed here.” Cerlo nodded to the quarryman. “He looks after the mules, so he sleeps in the stables. And I lives in one of the houses on Masons Row.”
“And neither of you came down into the quarry while the winch was inoperative?” Bascot asked.
The quarryman shook his head. “I stayed in the warm with the mules. Wasn’t no need to go down t’pit.”
“And you, Cerlo?”
“I kept indoors to do a few little jobs around the house, sharpening my tools and the like.”
“It must have been while the quarry was idle that he was killed, lord,” the quarryman observed. “He would have been seen for certain whiles any of us was workin’ here, ’cause he’s layin’ right out in plain sight.”
Bascot concurred and again examined the injuries on Brand’s body. After a few moments, he motioned to the top of the cliff and said, “It seems probable that this man was first stabbed, and then fell-or was pushed-from up there after the knife wound was inflicted. If he had fallen first, there would have been no need to stab him; he would have already been dead.”
“I thought that’s the way it must have happened,” the mason agreed, “for only the intervention of God could sav
e a man’s life after such a tumble.”
Bascot searched Brand’s clothing and found nothing except a short piece of leather thong, of the type used to secure a scrip to a belt, caught up in the folds of the dead man’s cloak.
“I think this man had a purse on his belt and it has been cut off,” Bascot said. “It may be that robbery was the reason for this crime. My servant and I will search above to see if there are any signs of a struggle.”
Cerlo nodded. “Will you be wanting me or the quarryman any further, lord?”
“Only to transport the corpse to the Priory of All Saints,” Bascot replied. “Ask for the infirmarian, Brother Jehan, and tell him I sent you with a request that he take care of the body of this unfortunate soul until arrangements can be made for burial.”
The mason assured Bascot they would do as he asked and told the quarryman to fetch a large wheel-barrow and some more lengths of sacking to wrap the body securely.
Leaving them to their task, Bascot and Gianni rode back to the cliff top. The thin layer of earth that covered the area was almost afloat with water and, when they dismounted to search the ground, it squelched beneath the soles of their boots. The pair walked slowly for about twenty yards along the lip of the steep drop and all around the shack, and then began to search farther back in case the body had been dragged for a distance before being pushed into the quarry. There was nothing to indicate a struggle, but the heavy fall of rain had pounded the earth so severely that the few blades of grass attempting to grow had been flattened into the ground. Any evidence of footsteps or scuff marks had been obliterated by the downpour. Just as Bascot was about to concede defeat, Gianni clapped his hands together loudly and the Templar looked up to see the boy wearing a smile on his face. Bascot went over to see what he had found and Gianni held out his hand, palm upwards. On it lay a silver penny. Although slightly tarnished, its brightness shone through the layer of mud on the surface.
Bascot took the coin and rubbed it on the front of his tunic so he could examine it more closely. “It’s an old coin,” he said to Gianni, “and appears to be from the reign of King Stephen. If I am right, it is at least fifty years old, maybe more, and is surprisingly unworn in view of its age.”
He held it out for the boy to see. There, inscribed on the surface, was a portrait of the king, depicted with a diadem on his head and, in his right hand, a sceptre. Around the edge was the inscription STEFNE REX. On the reverse side was a cross of the type with broadened and split ends called moline and a design of fleur-de-lis.
Gianni peered at it, and then, with a questioning look, took the coin from his master and hefted it in his palm. Moving his hand up and down slightly, he looked at the Templar in puzzlement.
“Yes, it may be short weighted,” Bascot answered to the boy’s unspoken question. “I believe many coins made during that period did not have a full complement of silver. That was a sad time in England’s history, Gianni, for the king battled for many years with his cousin, Matilda, for possession of the throne, and coinage was issued not only by the king, but by many barons and bishops as well. I remember my grandsire telling me that most of the minters in Stephen’s reign did not observe the criterion established in earlier times regarding the silver-weight of a penny. This fault was not corrected until King Henry came to the throne.”
He smiled as he recalled the time when his grandfather had, cursing, told Bascot and his brothers of those days, and how the silver the old man had so carefully hoarded was not worth as much as he thought so he had been unable to raise enough funds to buy a young stallion to replace his aging destrier. His grandsire had spat on the ground in disgust at the memory and told his grandsons to always be wary of accepting coin of the realm at face value.
Bascot took the coin back from Gianni and looked down at the scarred earth beneath his feet, pondering how long the penny could have lain there. “This must have been dropped recently; otherwise it would be more badly stained. But it is strange that a coin of such age has not been exchanged for one of new issue.”
Thoughtfully, he placed the coin in his scrip along with the piece of leather thong. “It may have been dropped by someone who had no connection with the murder-one of the stone workers, perhaps-but I shall show it to the sheriff nonetheless. It would appear the clerk was robbed and since Brand worked in a place that is closely involved with exchanging old coins for new, it is a coincidence that must not be overlooked.”
He and Gianni made another careful search of the ground, but found nothing more. Remounting the grey, they rode back to Lincoln castle.
Four
When Bascot and Gianni returned to the hall, Richard Camville was leaning against the wall watching Ralph of Turville and one of the household knights play Quek. The sheriff’s son was in a disgruntled mood. After he had informed his father of the stonemason’s discovery, he had not been able to settle back into his enjoyment of the game. He had looked forward to this visit from Eustachia and was taking pleasure in her company; the possibility of a murder intruding upon the festivities-and their betrothal ceremony-had destroyed his good humour. As Bascot and his servant walked across the hall towards him, threading their way through servants bustling about preparing the evening meal, Richard felt his glumness lighten a little. The Templar had proved himself extremely competent in solving the mysteries that surrounded crimes of murder, and perhaps he would be so again in this latest instance. Then all of the company would be able to enjoy the celebrations without distraction.
As Bascot approached, Richard wondered what it was in the Templar’s nature that made him so insightful of the motives that drove a man, or woman, to commit heinous crimes. He thought back to the day of Bascot’s arrival in Lincoln two years before. De Marins had only recently returned from the Holy Land at that time and had seemed a broken man, both in body and in spirit. He had been sent to Lincoln castle by the Order with a request to Richard’s mother, Nicolaa de la Haye, that she give the Templar shelter while he recovered from injuries sustained during his incarceration by the Saracens, and also in the hope that a period spent in the familiar surroundings of a castle would help him recover his waning faith. De Marins’s recuperation had been slow but, as the months passed, Nicolaa had begun to recognise the intrinsic worth of the man consigned to her care. If the knight had not decided to rejoin his brothers in the Templar Order, she would gladly have given him a place in her retinue.
Richard’s impression of the Templar was of a reticent man who was sometimes difficult to understand, but these minor failings were more than compensated for by his rigid code of honour and tenacious sense of duty. He also possessed, in contrast to most men of knightly status, a deep empathy for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in desperate circumstances, such as the mute boy he had taken as his servant. Was it these characteristics that gave him a heightened sensitivity to the baseness in others, or had his long imprisonment fostered an insight that comes only to those who have endured great suffering? Richard did not know the answer to these questions, but of one thing he was certain-de Marins could be tireless in his quest for truth. If there was any mystery surrounding this latest death, the sheriff’s son had every confidence the Templar would not rest until he unravelled it.
As Bascot came up to him, Richard asked if he had found confirmation that the clerk had, as the mason said, been murdered.
“Yes,” Bascot replied. “There can be no doubt the man’s life was purposely taken.”
Richard sighed resignedly. “My father said if that was the case, he would like to hear the details directly upon your return.”
Bascot nodded and, after giving Gianni instructions to go to the scriptorium and transcribe the notes he had taken, followed Richard to the sheriff’s chamber. It was a large room, littered with items of personal use such as spare leather jerkins, boots and tack for horses. On one side of the room were two large ironbound chests with heavy triple locks in which the sheriff kept the fees he collected on behalf of the crown. When Richard and Ba
scot entered the room, the sheriff was seated with his guest, Gilbert Bassett, in front of a roaring fire, drinking wine. Gerard Camville bade them help themselves to a cup of wine and then asked the Templar what he had found at the quarry.
“The clerk was killed by a stab wound to the heart, lord,” Bascot replied. “Death would have been immediate, and although the mason found his body lying on the quarry floor, I do not think Brand died there. It seems likely he was fatally stabbed atop the cliff face on the western side of the quarry and his body pushed over the edge into the pit. From the condition of his corpse, I would say Brand has been dead at least four days. It is likely he was killed on the day the snowstorm began, or the one before.”
Camville nodded and got up from his seat. He was a man of large proportions, with thick muscles swelling at neck and thighs, and black hair cut high on the nape of his neck in the old Norman fashion. When he rose, he emanated an aura of physical power so strong it made the chamber seem too small to contain his presence. Usually belligerent by nature, Camville had been in a mellower mood since the arrival of his old friend Gilbert Bassett. But even the congenial company of a fellow baron did not stop the sheriff from indulging in his habit of pacing, and that was what he did now, striding up and down the room with a catlike tread as he mused on what he had been told.