by Maureen Ash
“You miserable little worm,” Roget growled at his captive. “Give me what you have just stolen or I’ll lop your thieving fingers off.”
With shaking hands, the captive reached inside his tunic and handed a leather scrip to Roget. At the same moment, a tradesman who was standing near to Bascot let out a yell of alarm. “My purse is gone,” he cried, holding up two pieces of leather thong that had once held his scrip in place on his belt but had been cleanly sliced in two.
Roget shook the thief violently and there was a clatter as a small curved knife fell from the man’s clothing. The captain scooped it up just as one of the town guards came running from where he had been standing on the other side of the street.
“Take him to the gaol to await trial,” Roget ordered, handing the cutpurse into the custody of his subordinate, along with the knife. “He’ll not find it so easy to steal after he’s had a couple of fingers sliced from his hand.”
As the thief was led away and Roget took the scrip back to the townsman from whom it had been stolen, a burst of applause rang out along with cries of “Well done, Captain” from the watching bystanders. When Roget rejoined Bascot, he had a wide grin on his face and, as they resumed their journey to the guildhall, said to the Templar, “Perhaps, mon ami, this is a harbinger of the day’s good fortune. A thief has been caught, maybe we will also catch a murderer.”
They found Stoyle, a quiet conscientious man, at work in a little chamber at the back of the large building that was used by those responsible for the administration of Lincoln’s civil regulations as well as a meeting place for the guild masters in the town. When Hamo had needed extra help in the commandery, he had asked the bailiff to recommend three industrious young men of good character. Stoyle had subsequently sent the youngsters-one approaching his seventeenth year and the other two a couple of years younger-to the enclave and, after a brief interview, Hamo had hired them. After Bascot and Roget explained to Stoyle their need to question the boys and why, he told them to go to the flesh market on Spring Hill. The father of two of the lads had a stall there, he said, and would most likely know the whereabouts of his sons, and possibly the third boy.
After walking back up Mikelgate to Spring Hill, enquiries among the stallholders led them to a squat man with burly forearms who was hard at work chopping up half of a pig with a large cleaver. The huge apron that the fleshmonger wore was splattered with gore, as were his hands and face. The stall he owned was a large one, with chunks of beef, lamb and skinned carcasses of rabbit set out on display. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood. Hordes of flies circled around and crawled over the raw flesh, while stray cats and dogs lapped at the blood that lay in pools on the ground. Around the fleshmonger were other stalls carrying similar wares, but in smaller quantities. Goodwives from the town were inspecting the various cuts of meat on offer, many of them haggling over the price before making a selection and then wrapping their purchases in old cloths brought for the purpose and placing them in the wicker baskets they carried on their arms.
When Bascot and Roget approached the fleshmonger, he paused in his work to listen to the captain’s request to speak to his sons and, after wiping the sweat from his brow with one of his blood-stained hands, answered Roget gruffly, waving his cleaver in the direction of a neighbouring stall where three youngsters were setting out trays of offal.
“My lads and the other boy are over there,” he said and then, with a defiant glare at Bascot, added, “Meself and their mate’s father didn’t want ’em goin’ back to the preceptory in case that murderer is still hangin’ about, so I put ’em all to work here.”
The three youngsters had watched Roget and Bascot’s exchange with the fleshmonger and there was excitement on their faces as the Templar and captain walked over to them. When asked what their movements had been on the morning of the prostitute’s death, they responded eagerly, deriving a grisly satisfaction from their peripheral involvement in the murder. The fleshmonger’s family and that of the third boy lived close together, the eldest one said, and so he and his brother had gone to their friend’s house just after Matins, and they had walked to the enclave in each other’s company. Their journey had taken them up through Bailgate into the upper portion of the town where the castle and Minster were located, then through the grounds of the Minster and out of the gate in the eastern wall to the path that led to the preceptory. When asked if they had seen anyone during that time, the answer had been disappointing. There had not been many people on the streets that early in the morning, they were told, and only one of the guards under Roget’s command making his regular patrol and a few attendees at early morning Mass, all goodwives with young children, had been seen. Apart from those few, there had been no one else about.
Disappointed, Bascot thanked the youngsters and gave them leave to return to their chore of filling the offal trays. Then he and Roget left the flesh market, and walked back down Mikelgate to commence the tedious task of finding, and questioning, each of the men that the stewe-keeper, Verlain, had said visited Elfreda on a regular basis.
In the Preceptory, the atmosphere was subdued. Even though the chapel had been reconsecrated, at every service the eyes of the men strayed towards the vestry, unable to rid themselves of the thought that for two whole days, while they had been engaged in worship and prayer, a woman’s body had lain secretly decomposing in the chamber. The prostitute’s murder had cast a blight over them all.
In the hope that strenuous exercise would restore the men’s spirits, d’Arderon decided to hold a series of mock skirmishes on the hillside below the preceptory, using the rolling slope of the hill to simulate the arid terrain in the hot climes of Outremer and the Iberian Peninsula. Directing all eighteen men of the contingent to don full armour, he told them to assemble outside the gate onto the hill. He also ordered them to clad their horses in the protection that was worn while on a march into enemy territory or in battle-lengths of chain mail draped over the animals’ withers and back to shield the chests and legs of the mounts, padded covers on rumps, and fitted head-guards of either leather or mail. He then told Hamo to equip each of the men-at-arms regularly based in the enclave with one of the speedy, lightweight horses usually used by the Order’s messengers and also with bows, blunted arrows and lances. They were then to be dispersed among the hillocks of grass on the rolling slope below the enclave.
“We are going to simulate the method of attack most favoured by the Saracens when they encounter a troupe of Christian soldiers,” he informed the men of the contingent when they were all assembled. “The heathen will do their utmost to entice you into breaking out of formation. Saracen horses are smaller than ours and therefore fleeter of foot, and they will dart in, feint an attack, and then retreat, attempting to lure you into chasing them. If you are foolhardy enough to fall into that trap, you will find a dozen infidels hidden behind the next sand dune. One or two Christian soldiers, no matter how well armed, are no match for such a large number. You will be captured or killed. It is essential you obey your commander and do not engage the enemy until you are given the order to do so. This is a lesson you must learn for, if you do not, you will pay for your ignorance with your life.”
Leading them down onto the grassland until they were about a mile and a half distant from the preceptory, he gathered the men of the contingent into a troupe behind him, knights and squires in the van, men-at-arms behind, and led them in repeated charges up the hillside towards the enclave. In seeming cooperation with the preceptor’s intention, the sun shone down with a brilliance unusual for this time of year, and more in keeping with the later months of summer. Although the temperature was not nearly as high as it would be in the Holy Land, it was warm enough that perspiration soon began to trickle beneath chain mail shirts and helms, and the dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves stung the men’s eyes and clogged their nostrils. As d’Arderon led each charge up the grade of the hill, the brothers from the enclave staged the rapid assaults the preceptor had spoken o
f, riding just close enough to be out of reach of the swords carried by the men in the troupe and then firing an arrow or throwing a lance before darting back to a safer distance. Although the missiles were blunted, if one managed to find its way past the kite-shaped shields, the impact struck sharply against protective mail shirts and leggings, delivering painful bruises. And there was always the chance of serious injury if one should happen to land on the exposed portion of a face only partially protected by the nasal bar on helms. It was a gruelling drill, but d’Arderon hoped it would distract the men from contemplation of the circumstances surrounding the harlot’s death. Again and again, the preceptor led them through the exercise, admonishing the men who followed to keep close together and not allow the encircling men-at-arms to tempt them into retaliation unless he gave the command to do so. It was the strength of the Templar forces that obedience to their leader was absolute. A moment of impatience in a lonely stretch of desert could cost a man his life.
Emilius took up a position at the rear of the band. Despite the physical disadvantage of his crippled arm, years of battle experience made him an implacable deterrent to any who strayed from the tightly packed formation ahead of him. Wrapping the reins of his horse around the pommel of his saddle, in his strong right arm he carried a mace from which the flanges had been removed. To any who seemed about to swerve out of line, he kicked his mount forward and, guiding the animal with his knees, swung the mace onto the offending Templar’s shield. The hefty blow resulted in a bone-shaking jar that was sufficient to remind any negligent brother of the need to keep within the tightly packed formation.
The preceptor kept the men at the exercise for most of the morning. As the hour of noon approached, he separated the knights and squires from the rest and, taking them down to the flatland at the bottom of the hill, drilled them in repetitions of wheeling their horses en masse to face different directions, always keeping together in a solid bloc. When under attack, the ability to turn and present a united front to the enemy was of prime importance. Since men-at-arms often fought as infantry, Hamo took over their training, marching them forward and back in a solid rank and, at his command, pivoting shoulder to shoulder with shields enarmed. By early afternoon their passage had scarred the side of the hill with a wide swathe of churned up earth. The only breaks permitted were to rest the horses, or exchange tiring mounts for fresh ones. None were allowed to take a midday meal and thirst was quenched by a few meagre swallows of ale from a keg placed at the top of the hillside. At the hours of divine office, a short respite was allowed while the required number of paternosters for each service was repeated, just as if the men were on active duty and unable to attend services in their chapel.
At two hours past midday, the preceptor gave the little band a brief rest after which, he said, the knights would engage in combat with lances. The men-at-arms were to set up butts and improve their archery skills.
There were four brothers of knight’s rank in the contingent and these, with their squires, took up places on a level stretch of ground. D’Arderon and Emilius rode down to watch the contest, leaving Hamo in charge of the men-at-arms. The preceptor and draper watched the knights’ manoeuvres with interest, weighing up the expertise of each. Two of the knights were young men who had only recently received the buffet of knighthood and had little battle experience. The other two were older, both men who were approaching their fortieth year. One of these had told Emilius he had once served with King Richard’s forces in Normandy in the years before the monarch’s death, and had fought alongside William Marshall, a famed paladin despite his advancing age, in the attack on the French castle at Milli, near Beauvais, in ’97. Having returned to England shortly after that encounter, the knight’s reflexes had slowed somewhat during the intervening years of peaceful inactivity, but the training he had undergone since joining the Templars had encouraged their sharpness to return. After only one pass, he and the other older knight, a crusader who had followed King Richard to the Holy Land in 1192, had unhorsed both of the younger knights and prepared to pit their skills against each other. Twice the pair ran a course across the hillocky grassland, the twelve foot lances crashing onto each other’s shields, but with both managing to deflect the blow and maintain their seats. As they drew apart and wheeled their destriers for the third time, the knight who had fought with William Marshall tried a different tactic. Instead of aiming the blunted twelve-foot shaft at the shield of his opponent, he held it low, as though he was tiring and could not couch the lance firmly under his arm. The former crusader was quick to take advantage of this seeming weakness and spurred his horse forward, his lance levelled for a clear hit on the shield of his adversary. At the last moment, his opponent raised his lance and, with a swift movement, knocked the other shaft aside and then, with the full weight of his body, thrust himself sideways and drove his shield into that of the former crusader, toppling him from the saddle. Shouts of admiration burst forth from the watching men and a groan of despair from the fallen knight’s squire.
“That man will be a valuable addition to the commandery in Portugal,” d’Arderon said to Emilius.
“And I thank God for him,” the draper replied with enthusiasm. “They have great need for men of experience.”
As it was now approaching Vespers, d’Arderon called a halt to the training and ordered the men to return to the enclave, hoping the day’s demanding activity had put new heart into all. For a short time, as they lined up to ride through the gate into the preceptory, there was a brief burst of exhilaration as tactics and weapons were discussed, but it was short-lived. Once inside the commandery, an unnatural silence fell, and it was not broken as the Templars stabled their horses and then crossed the compound to attend the early evening service in the chapel. Despite d’Arderon’s efforts, a pall of despondency still engulfed them all.
It was late in the evening by the time Bascot returned to the commandery. He and Roget had spoken to all of the men Verlain had named and every one had witnesses to their presence on the morning in question. In the case of three of them, it was the customer’s wives who provided their spouses’ alibis-with angry glances at their husbands as they did so-and for the rest of them, who were all unmarried or widowed-it was a member of the household in which they lived who confirmed their whereabouts at the pertinent time. Before they parted, Bascot and Roget agreed that, on the morrow, the captain would visit all of the houses in Butwerk, especially those close to the stewe where Elfreda had worked, and ask if any of the inhabitants had seen the prostitute after she left the bawdy house. In the meantime, Bascot would speak to the men in the preceptory, asking each one if they were certain they had not noticed anything untoward during the time Elfreda and her companion had been admitted to the enclave. Preceptor d’Arderon had already made this same enquiry, but it had been at a general assembly of the men after Elfreda’s body had been removed, and the response had been negative. Perhaps by Bascot speaking to each brother individually, as well as to the grooms that slept out on the hillside where the surplus horses were penned, he might find some small trace of the prostitute’s presence and a description of the man who had accompanied her.
That night, Bascot’s sleep was restless. As the rest of the men in the dormitory snored on their pallets, the Templar gave more consideration to the notion that one of the men in the enclave was guilty of the crime. In the small radiance cast by the rushlights kept burning all night long in the sleeping place, Bascot stared into the wooden rafters above him with his one good eye and pondered if the idea was feasible. In order to have gained Elfreda’s company, it would have been necessary for the man to have left the commandery the evening before, and to have done so unnoticed. If he had been able to accomplish that, he could have regained admittance in the guise of one of the lads Hamo had hired as extra help, killed Elfreda and secreted her body in the chest, then returned to his pallet. Apart from the danger of his earlier absence being noticed, the task would have been much easier for an inmate of the preceptory t
o commit than an outsider. He would be familiar with the daily routine, cognizant of the layout of the chapel and other buildings and, since he was expected to be present in the enclave, had no need to be concerned about a surreptitious exit.
If his suspicion had merit, it was possible that the guilty person’s absence had not been noticed. Sleeping quarters in the dormitory were cramped due to the excessive number of men in the enclave; priority was given to those of knight’s rank and their squires, requiring that the overflow take their night’s rest wherever they could find enough space to lie down. Some of the men-at-arms had spread their pallets in the stables, others on the floor of the granary or in the confines of the storehouse, squeezing in beside the lay brothers and servants who regularly slept in the buildings. And there was always the possibility that the culprit was a brother who had left the preceptory with the recently departed contingent. When those additional men were in the enclave, sleeping quarters had been even more inadequate. It was unlikely one man’s absence would have been noticed.
Short of asking every brother to vouch for the presence of his sleeping companions, there was no way in which Bascot could verify that all of the Templars, as well as the lay brothers and servants, had remained within the precincts of the commandery for the entire night. Another concern was that if he asked the question too boldly, it might exacerbate the existing feeling of disquietude; he did not want to plant the suspicion in their minds that a Templar might have carried out the murder. If that happened, morale would fall even lower than it was now. Still, he decided, by taking care to be judicious with his questions, it might just be possible to ascertain the presence of everyone without revealing his purpose. He hoped it would prove a fruitless exercise, but felt it to be a necessary one, if only to eliminate the possibility that, God forfend, a Templar brother was the murderer.