by Maureen Ash
Walter looked up at his sister, at the features so like his own. Silvana had the same thick dark hair, which she wore braided and neatly coiled under a close-fitting coif, and the identical rosiness of cheek. Although she was five years younger than he, Silvana had always seemed as though she were the elder, for she watched over his well-being as though she were their long-dead mother. From any other, the words she had just spoken would have invoked his wrath, but he knew her castigation was well meant and given only out of concern for him and her nephews.
“You are right, Silvana,” he said with a groan of despair, his habitual haughtiness absent in the presence of his sister. “I promise that after Epiphany it will be as you say. I fear I do not have any choice in the matter.”
At Tasser’s manufactory on Mikelgate, Bascot and Roget were searching the silversmith’s premises. They had gained entry easily enough, for Tasser made no objection when told they had come on the sheriff’s behalf to enquire into the murder of Roger Fardein.
Tasser was a short fat man with an oily, obsequious manner and thick lips above a receding chin, a combination that gave him more than a passing resemblance to a toad. His hands were adorned with costly rings and around his neck was a heavy chain of meshed gold links. When asked why he had not reported the absence of his apprentice from his place of work, Tasser shrugged and replied that because it was the season of Christ’s Mass he thought Fardein was indulging in a prolonged celebration of the holy days.
“Roger was a man who liked his wine cup,” Tasser said in an offhand manner. “It was not the first time he failed to turn up for work. Had he not been such a competent apprentice, I would have dismissed him. But”-and here he directed an unctuous smile at Roget, who had the reputation of being a womanizer-“we all know what it is to be young and have an itch in our loins. I thought he would turn up when his passion was sated.”
Bascot told him they wanted to question the other men who worked in the silver manufactory, and Tasser summoned his remaining employees. There were only two: an accredited silversmith past his middle years, and a younger man who fulfilled the function of general factotum.
Both of them, when questioned, denied keeping company with their dead colleague in off-duty hours or knowledge of his whereabouts around the time he was murdered.
When asked where Fardein had lodged, Tasser took them to a chamber at the back of the building and said he had allowed his apprentice to sleep there. The silversmith made no demur when they informed him they intended to search both it and the rest of the premises for evidence.
Tasser, a knowing smirk on his wide lips that infuriated both men, left them to their task and they searched through Fardein’s few belongings. The room did not contain much in the way of furniture, and they found nothing under the thin mattress that comprised a bed, or in the leather satchel that hung from a peg on the wall. Aside from an extra pair of hose which were grubby and stained, and a couple of small tools used in his trade, the apprentice seemed to have owned nothing apart from a badly dented pewter mug that sat alongside an empty wine flagon on a table beside his bed.
The pair then went upstairs, to the three large private rooms that, along with the hall downstairs, constituted the silversmith’s living quarters. One of the chambers appeared to be an office, for there were a number of documents neatly stacked in an open-faced cupboard and a desk laid with parchment and writing implements. Around the desk were a number of comfortable chairs with laddered backs. Next to the office were two sleeping chambers, one containing a large bed fitted with a thick mattress and overlaid with quilts of goose down and the other appearing to be a guest chamber, with a smaller bed and less extravagant bed linen. All the rooms were richly appointed, with draught-excluding tapestries on the walls, rugs of sheepskin on the floors, and beeswax candles in finely wrought silver holders, but a thorough scrutiny revealed nothing incriminating.
Bascot and Roget went back downstairs and searched the hall. Although it contained a heavy oak table and chairs of fine craftsmanship, neither it nor any of the other furniture-a padded settle, two massive chairs with arms and an open-faced cupboard laid with pewter platters and silver drinking cups-contained any crevices that could be used as a hiding place. Out back, in the yard, was a building housing a small kitchen where an elderly woman was boiling a hock of bacon in a cauldron hanging from a tripod over the fireplace. She did not seem surprised when they interrupted her chore; both men guessed she was inured to the disturbance of authorities investigating her master’s activities.
When asked if she had any knowledge of Fardein’s personal life, she turned up her nose in disapproval. “I never talked to that one any more than I had need,” she replied. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but he thought himself far above the likes of me ’cause of the confidence the master placed in him.”
She had looked at both of them with wise old eyes. “I know the reputation Master Tasser has and I wouldn’t work here if I didn’t need the money, but I keeps myself to myself and only come in to cook the meals and give the place a clean once a week. I don’t stay any longer than I have to, but goes back to my lodgings in Pottergate every night.”
She stood by stoically while they searched the kitchen, but it contained only a supply of staples, some kegs of salted fish and rounds of cheese. Leaving her to resume her task of cooking the bacon, they went back to search the manufactory.
In the large chamber where the silversmith plied his craft, they paid special attention to the locked chests on the floor. In one was a number of newly made vessels Tasser claimed were items commissioned by various customers. After Roget gave all of these a careful examination, Bascot asked the silversmith to open the other chest. When the lid was lifted, it could be seen the coffer was half-filled with bags of coin that were, Tasser claimed, profits from his trade. Without telling Roget the reason for doing so, the Templar asked the captain to upend the leather satchels onto the floor. As the silver pennies spilled and rolled onto the ground, a quick glance was enough to ensure all were of recent minting and of the short cross design instituted during the reign of King Henry II. None of them bore the head of King Stephen.
During their search, Tasser stood complacently by and made no complaint at the disturbance of his trade or his premises. When they finally left, Roget was extremely angry.
“I hoped to find something that had been reported stolen,” he growled in disgruntlement. “Then I could have arrested that batard.”
“Fardein has been dead for a few days,” Bascot replied. “If Tasser knew of it before times, he has had ample time to rid himself of any evidence connected to the murder or to a theft.”
Roget nodded gloomily. “You are right, mon ami. But the day will come when I will find him out and, when I do, I will take great pleasure in seeing his right hand struck off for larceny.”
Twelve
It was late in the afternoon by the time Bascot met with Gerard Camville, Nicolaa de la Haye and their son, Richard, in the sheriff’s private chamber and told them the search of the silversmith’s premises had not produced any gainful results.
Camville, as usual, was on his feet and striding back and forth along the length of the chamber. “I am sure there is a connection between the murdered men and Tasser,” he said angrily. “The death of Fardein convinces me of that. And if a treasure trove is involved, the silversmith is corrupt enough to kill for possession of it.”
“After speaking with the man, I am inclined to agree with you, lord,” Bascot said, “but I think Tasser is too wily to wield the dagger himself.”
“But if there is, as you say, a link between the two deaths, Father, it is not likely that Tasser would even have known the clerk, let alone had reason to kill him,” Richard protested. “And there is still nothing to give proof, other than the old coin found in the quarry, that a trove is involved in either slaying.”
Camville glared at his son, but did not refute Richard’s objections.
Nicolaa, who had been listening to the exch
ange in silence, asked Bascot for his impressions of the people who worked in the exchange and the mint. “Are there any among them that arouse your suspicion, de Marins?”
Bascot gave her question a moment’s consideration before answering, “The moneyer, de Stow, was forthright in manner, but perhaps a little too much so. It could indicate he has nothing to hide, of course, but it could also mean he had foreknowledge of the crime and was well prepared for an enquiry. Of his employees, including the guards, all seemed slightly apprehensive but, again, that may not indicate guilt. They had just learned one of their colleagues had been murdered; that in itself is enough of a shock to cause fear.
“As far as the exchanger is concerned, I was not entirely satisfied with the attitude of either him or his assayer. Although both answered my questions readily enough, I had a feeling they were not telling me all they knew. Legerton’s reluctance could be accounted for by the fact that he is, as you said, lord, an overbearing man and resented being subjected to your authority. As for Simon Partager, he may simply have been inhibited by his employer’s presence during the questioning.”
“I have heard Legerton keeps his manor house in a fine way,” Richard said. “Is that true?”
The Templar nodded. “There were quite a number of guests when I arrived and the food and entertainments did not look as though they had been stinted. The building itself is well fortified and in good repair.”
Richard looked at his father. “As far as I am aware, Legerton has no income except for the stipend and commission he derives from the exchange, nor does he have any land other than the manor house at Canwick. While his earnings would be a very satisfactory remuneration for a man who lived in the free lodgings on the exchange premises, it surely cannot be enough to support another property without a great deal of parsimony. How can Legerton afford to live in such grand style?”
“I remember that he sold his father’s silver manufactory when the old man died,” Nicolaa interposed. “Perhaps he is living off the profit he obtained from the sale, although he must have spent a good portion of the proceeds to purchase the manor house. It was in a bad state of repair when he bought it, I recall, and because of its condition, the Jewish moneylender who claimed the property in repayment of a debt after the owner died was willing to take a very low price. Nevertheless, it was built at least sixty years ago and must have cost a great deal to restore. It would appear Legerton has not only spent his inheritance but is living beyond his means.” She made a moue of disapproval. “If that is so, he is a foolish man. Money should be used to provide the means of an income, not frittered away until it is no more.”
“If the exchanger’s coffers are empty, it would give him a motive for concealing a trove. But even if he has the wealth of Croesus hidden in his office, I need evidence of culpability before I can authorise a search of the building,” Camville said.
“The two men hired to guard the exchange,” Bascot said musingly. “I have yet to question them, since they were not on duty the day I went to the mint. If Legerton is hiding illicit monies on the premises, they may be privy to it.”
The sheriff stopped in his pacing, his face resolute. “Go back and find them, de Marins, if you will; see if they know anything that will help us. Find me one small trace that Legerton has betrayed his oath to the king and I will tear the exchange apart stone by stone.”
The next day was the first one of the new year. In the morning, after everyone had attended Mass, Lady Nicolaa gave gifts of silver coin to all the household staff. Those of lowest station received one new penny, with the amount of the gift increasing accordingly up through the ranks of the servants and men-at-arms until it reached those of the highest station, such as John Blund and Eudo, who each received six shillings.
It was then Gerard Camville’s turn to recognise, by the giving of a gift, his appreciation of his household knights. To each he handed a small leather bag containing a quantity of silver coins and they, in turn, extracted a coin from the bag and presented it to the squires and pages who attended them.
Once this yearly ceremony was completed, and while wine and ale were served to all the company, gifts of a more personal nature were exchanged. On the dais, Nicolaa and Gerard presented Richard with an eating knife decorated with a scrolled silver haft and gave Eustachia a cloak of deep red wool edged with squirrel fur. Gilbert Bassett’s gifts to his wife and two daughters were delicate rings of gold filigree and Ralph of Turville gave Maud a small pair of scissors with ivory handles. His present to his son, Stephen, was an illuminated Psalter.
On the floor of the hall, servants also exchanged small tokens of affection as scullions from the kitchen brought in trays laden with individual cakes of mincemeat topped with marchpane and distributed them throughout the hall. In one of the cakes, the cook had placed a small piece of wood carved in the shape of a bean. The servant who had the good fortune to find the wooden bean in his or her portion of cake would be proclaimed Lord or Lady of Folly and allowed to preside over the festivities later that evening. The mock noble would be served food and wine as though they sat at the high table and have the extraordinary licence of making outrageous demands on the rest of the staff. These commands were usually frivolous in nature and had included, in years past, ordering a manservant to walk the length of the hall holding a wooden platter between his knees or standing on his head while his nostrils were tickled with a feather. Because Nicolaa de la Haye frowned on lewdness, usually only male servants were asked to engage in antics that might require a woman to lift her skirts. But the female servants did not escape taking part in the buffoonery. They could be ordered to push an inflated pig’s bladder along the floor with their nose or submit to walking in circles with a bowl of greasy scraps on their head until the mess spilled over their clothes. All this lighthearted foolery would provoke helpless laughter in the spectators.
The wooden bean was, therefore, a much-coveted prize and each servant immediately searched his or her portion of cake in hope of finding it. Finally, a shout of triumph came from one of the varlets, a young lad responsible for cleaning the grate of the huge fireplace in the hall. As he held his trophy aloft, everyone clapped their hands loudly and two or three fellow menservants hoisted their fortunate companion up on their shoulders and carried him about the hall. The steward, Eudo, let them enjoy their merriment for a few moments before calling them to order and back to their duties. He reminded them all there were still some hours to go before the commencement of the evening’s festivities and added a warning that any who did not complete their allotted tasks would be forbidden to take part.
At the first table below the dais, Bascot sat with the other household knights. He had again allowed Gianni to be seated and the boy had taken the same place as he had done on the feast of Christ’s Mass, beside Lambert. That morning, in the privacy of their chamber, Bascot had given the boy a small pewter medal bearing the image of St. Genesius of Arles, a clerk who suffered martyrdom in the fourth century. When Bascot had given Gianni the medal, the boy had pinned it to his tunic with tears in his eyes. Now, as he watched the antics of the servants, his fingertips kept straying to the miniature pewter figure while his lips curled in a smile of happiness.
Once the morning ritual was over, the company began to disperse and Bascot and Gianni left the hall and went over to the castle barracks to spend the hours until evening. Ernulf, who had a gruff fondness for Gianni, had persuaded the castle cook to make a cake of saffron and plum conserves as a New Year’s gift for the boy, parting with two silver pennies for the favour.
“Plums are Gianni’s favourite fruit,” Ernulf had told the Templar. “I am sure he will enjoy it.”
He had not been wrong. Gianni’s face broke into a wide smile and he clapped his hands together in appreciation when he saw the serjeant’s gift. The serjeant ordered a keg of ale broached for the enjoyment of all of the men-at-arms who were not on duty and, as Gianni happily munched on the cake, the soldiers began to reminisce of previous New Year�
�s Days and the splendid food they had eaten.
As the tales circulated, and the men-at-arms’ memories grew more fanciful in recalling details of the quantity and quality of the dishes that had been served, Bascot let his mind drift back to the day before and his questioning of the two guards who worked in the exchange.
After his meeting with Gerard Camville, he had ridden immediately to the exchange and, finding it closed, gone next door to the mint. He arrived just as de Stow’s employees were finishing work for the day. When he asked if any knew the whereabouts of Legerton’s guards, one of the hammermen told him they lodged in rooms above a nearby alehouse.
Bascot found the alehouse in a street called Walker-gate, where the patrons were mostly dyers who plied their trade close to the river Witham. The wattle and daub walls of the building were badly in need of a fresh coat of lime and the inside was just as ill-kept, with rough tables and benches scattered about and filthy rushes on the floor. The ale keeper, a shrivelled individual with a hook fitted to the stump of his left arm in place of a hand, answered Bascot’s enquiry for the whereabouts of the guards with an anxious look, pointing his hook at a table in the corner where two men were sitting. Both were of a similar type to those employed by de Stow, former soldiers who had fallen on hard times and depended on their military skills to earn a living. They were dressed in boiled leather jerkins and plain dark hose and each carried a cudgel and short sword on their belts.
Respectful of Bascot’s rank, neither guard gave any sign of apprehension when he told them he was investigating the death of Peter Brand and asked them the same questions he had put to de Stow’s employees. They answered in a similar manner as the workers at the mint had done-both denied keeping company with the clerk outside of working hours and claimed he had not made any mention of going to the quarry on the day of his death.