by Maureen Ash
In the castle, Gerard Camville grew even more testy than usual as one day passed and another began, and still no trace of Elfreda’s killer was found. Finally, Nicolaa suggested that he take a hunting party out into the greenwood and use his pent-up energy in pursuit of an animal quarry instead of a human one, perhaps even stay overnight in his hunting lodge while he did so. She would, she told him, send a message to him at once if any new information was unearthed. When her irascible husband agreed to her suggestion, there was a sigh of relief not only from his wife, but from every member of the castle household.
Seven
Early the next morning, after Prime, d’Arderon had all of the men from the contingent assemble in the centre of the commandery and declared that, since they were to leave for Portsmouth in two days’ time, they were to spend the intervening period preparing for the journey. Horses were to be rested, weapons put in good order, and repairs made to any tears or snags in clothing. They were also to ensure that the beards which every brother was constrained to grow in accordance with the Templar Rule were neatly trimmed, as well as their hair shorn to an acceptable length. The next morning, the preceptor said, all of the men-at-arms in the contingent would present themselves for inspection by Draper Emilius, while the knights would take the responsibility of ensuring that they and their squires were ready to embark.
The preceptor’s decree made Bascot’s task of speaking to each of the brothers, both those regularly based in the commandery and the ones belonging to the contingent, much easier. Within the organised muddle of men honing swords, repairing rips in tunics with needles and lengths of gut, or sitting patiently while a comrade used a sharp knife to shear off excess growth in hair or beard, he was able to approach small groups of two or three brothers at a time and tell them the preceptor had asked him to confirm, before the contingent left the enclave, that no one had noticed anything suspicious on the night of Elfreda’s murder. He also asked each of the men in which part of the enclave they had been sleeping.
All of the men’s responses to the first part of his question were, as he had expected, in the negative. None claimed to have heard or seen anything unusual and had, for the most part, taken their night’s rest undisturbed. By taking note of those who had slept in the same locations, he was able to crosscheck that their claims were true. The men stationed with the horses in the makeshift pen out on the hillside had also passed a quiet night and had neither seen nor heard anything untoward. Only one of the brothers he questioned, a young man-at-arms from the contingent, had said that he could not be sure, since he had been taken with gripes in his belly for almost all of that night.
“A couple of hours after I lay down on my pallet in the stable, I had to rush to the jakes,” he admitted shamefacedly, and guffaws broke out from the men who were with the young soldier when Bascot asked the question. “I was back on my pallet before the bell for Matins sounded,” he added, “but if anyone was about in the preceptory, I don’t think I would have noticed them, ’cause the pains were really bad.”
He was the recent initiate, Bascot recalled, who had received a reprimand from Hamo for not being in command of his short sword on the day Elfie’s body had been found. It was more than likely his sour stomach had stemmed from anxiety about his lack of proficiency with the weapon.
The Templar had then questioned each of the men-at-arms regularly based in the enclave as well as the lay brothers and servants. The responses were the same as those from the men of the contingent. He was relieved to find his careful enquiry had been pointless.
At a late hour in the afternoon, Roget came to the commandery to tell Bascot the result of his questioning of the inhabitants of Butwerk. The captain’s disappointment was evident in his manner when Bascot came out to the gate to speak to him.
“I have found nothing that can help us find this chien, mon ami,” Roget said. “No one saw either Elfreda or her killer or heard anything of their passage to the preceptory. It is as though the pair of them were wraiths that moved in the shadows, invisible to all.” He looked at the Templar hopefully. “Have you learned anything? Anything you can tell me, that is.”
Bascot, in turn, shook his head. “Nothing, either that I am allowed to tell you, or otherwise.”
“Then I fear we will never discover who committed this despicable crime,” Roget said disconsolately. The captain hawked and spat. “I am off to find a jug of good wine and the company of a complaisant woman,” he said. “I hope I will see you once more before you leave but, if I do not, I bid you fare well against the infidel.”
As the evening drew to a close, and there remained only one more day before Bascot was due to leave, he found himself with a surprising reluctance to depart. It seemed that God had endowed him with a talent for tracking down the perpetrators of such atrocious crimes but now, when that ability was so desperately needed, it had failed him. Although he had never felt any conceit for his accomplishments-it was God’s gift and not his own skill that was the cause of his success-he wondered if he was now in danger of falling prey to the sin of pride. If it was God’s will that the identity of the murderer be revealed, it would be done, whether Bascot was in Lincoln or not. With a prayer beseeching heaven to aid d’Arderon in his dilemma, the Templar ruminated on the other cause of his disinclination to leave.
In the spring of 1199, when he had finally managed to escape the Saracens after his years of incarceration in the Holy Land, he had stopped on the island of Sicily as he made his way back to England. There, begging on a wharf in the port of Palermo, he had noticed a young mute boy who was suffering from malnutrition and looked to be near death. Bascot had been struck with pity for the lad’s plight and had persuaded the boy to become his servant. As he had found the youngster on St. John’s day, he had given him the name of Gianni, a diminutive of the Italian name of the saint. Together they had travelled back to England and, during the two years Bascot had stayed in Lincoln castle, the lad had served him devotedly. With the passage of time, the Templar had come to regard Gianni with the same affection he would have bestowed on a son of his own loins.
Leaving the boy behind when he rejoined the Order had been difficult, even though the castellan, Nicolaa de la Haye, had promised to personally keep watch over him. Due to the lessons in scribing that Bascot had given Gianni during their stay in the castle-at which the boy had proved both his acumen and diligence-Nicolaa had given Gianni a place in her retinue, working in the scriptorium under the direction of her secretary, John Blund. Bascot had been certain that after he left to rejoin the Order, the boy would thrive and be safe from harm. But now, with a murderer once again loose in the town, Bascot felt uneasy. If Elfreda’s killer had been clever enough to gain entry into a stoutly walled compound guarded by armed soldiers, the villain would have little difficulty gaining access to the castle. A murderer had breached the security of the fortress once before and a clerk in the scriptorium-where Gianni now spent his days-had died a horrible death from the effects of a lethal poison.
Bascot castigated himself for his fear but, all the same, could not rid himself of it. In just thirty-six short hours he would leave Lincoln and, with it, Gianni, the lad who had come to hold a special place in his heart. He fervently prayed the evil knave who had murdered Elfreda would make no attempt to breach the castle walls.
In the castle scriptorium, the young boy who was the object of the Templar’s concern was also anxious, but not out of fear for his own well-being. A small, slim young boy of about fourteen years of age, with a head of dark curly hair and liquid brown eyes, he was seated at one of the lecterns the clerks used to carry out their tasks, making an archive copy of an accounting sheet from one of the Haye properties. With him were the secretary, John Blund, and an older clerk named Lambert who was Gianni’s tutor and also his friend. Lambert had taken the trouble to learn the sign language that the boy and his former master had used to communicate and, just a few months before, had compiled a book of the gestures for the use of a scion of the Englis
h nobility who had difficulty speaking because of a cleft lip and divided palate.
Gianni was bent over his task, but his concentration was not wholly on the document in front of him. His leave-taking from his former master had been a few weeks before, at Eastertide, on the fourteenth of April. It had wrenched the boy’s heart to watch his master leave to rejoin his Templar brothers, but the boy knew it was right that Sir Bascot do so. While Gianni was fully aware of his former master’s heartfelt regard, he was just as cognizant that the Templar’s soul belonged to the Order.
At first Gianni had found the new routine unsettling and had missed Bascot’s reassuring presence but, as the days went on, Gianni had grown accustomed to his new life. He slept in the barracks with the men-at-arms under the watchful eye of Ernulf, the veteran serjeant of the garrison. Ernulf had a gruff affection for Gianni and the boy knew he need have no fear of harm while the serjeant and the soldiers of the garrison, all of whom treated him with kindness, were nearby. Gianni’s days were spent in the scriptorium. Master Blund was also well-disposed towards his new clerk, even though the secretary could be a little stern at times. But his faded blue eyes would light with praise as he monitored Gianni’s work and his elderly face crease into a smile of pleasure at each new proof of his young assistant’s aptitude for the tasks he was given. All in all, Gianni’s future was one he could look forward to with confidence.
It was not his new circumstances that were causing Gianni concern, but the news Master Blund had related about how the murder of a prostitute had taken place in the Templar preceptory. The secretarius had related the conversation he had overheard between Lady Nicolaa and her husband, and that the castellan had suggested it might be one of the Templars in the preceptory who was responsible for killing the bawd. Gianni had no fear of his former master’s ability to defend himself in an open confrontation-the boy had seen the muscles that swelled in the Templar’s arms when he practised with a sword in the training ground of the castle bail-but if the murderer was one of the brothers in the Lincoln commandery, and Bascot came close to discovering his identity, his former master could be in danger of an attack by stealth. A knife in the back while Bascot took his night’s rest on his pallet, or was absorbed in prayers in the chapel-the boy’s vivid imagination conjured up a dozen ways that the life of the man he had come to love above all others could be snuffed out with the quickness of dousing a candle flame.
The boy turned away from Master Blund and Lambert’s scrutiny and, slipping down from the stool on which he was seated, walked over to a huge cupboard filled with rolls of parchment and scribing implements that stood at the back of the room. Determinedly emptying his mind of his fears, he shut his eyes tightly and, under the guise of sharpening the point of a new quill, sent a silent prayer heavenward, beseeching God to keep the Templar free from harm until he had ridden safely away to Portugal.
E ARLIER THAT MORNING, A L INCOLN PROSTITUTE NAMED Adele Delorme was startled out of sleep by a knock at the door. She was not a common harlot like Elfie, forced to earn her living under the protection of a panderer in one of the stewes in the lower part of town, but a woman of great beauty who, by using her physical attributes in a discriminating fashion, owned the house in Danesgate where she entertained a select number of wealthy men.
As Adele rose from her bed on the upper floor to respond to the knocking at her door, she mentally castigated herself for not replacing the maidservant who had left her employ a couple of weeks before. But the position required a girl who was willing to endanger her own reputation by working in the household of a harlot and also had the good sense to keep a still tongue in her head about the men who came to enjoy Adele’s favours. Such a discriminating servant was not easy to find and, so far, there had been no suitable candidates.
Hastily throwing a light cloak about her nakedness, the elegant prostitute went downstairs. Her caller stood close to the step, a hooded cloak partially shielding the face. It took Adele a second or two to rub the sleep out of her eyes and recognise her visitor but, when she did, she evinced surprise.
“I had not thought to ever see you again,” she said.
“Nor I you,” the caller replied. “Will you allow me to come in? I have an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”
Reluctantly, Adele nodded. “I suppose I owe you such a favour,” she said. “But you will have to wait downstairs while I get dressed.”
The visitor followed Adele into a small chamber just off the entryway. The prostitute bid her guest be seated in a comfortable chair and poured a cup of wine, which she set on a table near the chair.
“I will only be a few moments,” Adele said and, pushing back the thick locks of auburn hair that had fallen over her shoulders, hastened from the room.
As she made her way up the staircase to the upper floor, she was unaware that her caller had not waited in the chamber as she had bid but had, after a few moments, followed her up the stairs with stealthy steps. Nor, as she donned a kirtle of embroidered sendal, did she hear the door come softly open behind her. The first indication that she was not alone was when a length of strong leather cord encircled her neck and was pulled so tight that it choked off her breath. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the cord that was strangling her and she tried to scream, but to no avail. Within seconds, she was dead.
Adele’s body was not discovered until late in the evening when one of her wealthy patrons, an armourer, called at her dwelling for his regular appointment. Just like Elfreda, Adele had been garrotted, but this time additional injuries had been inflicted on the prostitute’s dead body. The armourer, a man of strong physical and mental constitution, nonetheless felt his senses reel when he saw what had been done to her. After ripping the harlot’s gown from neck to navel, the point of a sharp knife had been used to carve a symbol on the delicate flesh of Adele’s left breast. It was a cross pattee, the emblem of the Templar Order.
Eight
Though the weather over the preceding days had been exceptionally fine, the next morning dawned with a heavily overcast sky that promised rain. Well before report of the second prostitute’s death reached the preceptory, Bascot went to ask Preceptor d’Arderon if he would accompany him out onto the hillside and give his opinion on one of the mounts that Bascot had chosen to take with him to Portugal. Every Templar knight was allowed to have three horses; if they didn’t bring the animals with them when they joined, or if the mounts became incapacitated, they were provided by the Order. The preceptor had bidden Bascot take his pick from the steeds in the commandery and now that he had made his choice, he wanted d’Arderon’s approval of the animal that was to be his destrier. The preceptor was a good judge of horseflesh and his opinion worth having.
As the men-at-arms began to assemble in the middle of the commandery for Emilius’s inspection, the pair rode out of the preceptory gate and down onto the grassy slope below, Bascot paying particular attention to the gait of his mount. The horse was a sure-footed sorrel stallion. It was smaller in stature than some of the other destriers in the stable, but it had a solid stance and alert temperament. Bascot was confident it would serve him well in any confrontation with the enemy and it looked to have enough stamina to withstand a long journey. He had chosen another stallion, a mature grey that Hamo had recommended, as an alternate war horse, and a black gelding to use as a packhorse, leaving them both with the blacksmith to have new shoes fitted. As he rode the sorrel up and down the grassy stretch, guiding it into swift turns and abrupt halts, the preceptor sat atop his huge black destrier and watched Bascot put the stallion through the manoeuvres. D’Arderon’s wide muscular figure was immobile, but every so often his eyes would stray to dark clouds that were beginning to gather on the southern horizon. Bascot would, afterwards, think of those clouds as a dire omen of events to come.
Bascot felt more than a little concern for the preceptor’s state of mind. The death of the harlot and defilement of the chapel had shaken him badly, as did the depressed morale of the men. D’Arderon too
k his responsibilities with great seriousness. Even though it was impossible for him to have prevented Elfreda’s murder from taking place, Bascot knew the preceptor nonetheless felt a share of the responsibility, if only for the fact that it was one of the men under his command-the guard on the gate-that had admitted the bawd and her killer into the enclave. During the time a poisoner had been loose in Lincoln a year before, when one of the bailiffs employed by the Order to supervise a Templar property had been found to be of a loose moral standard, d’Arderon had blamed himself for not having been more scrupulous in checking the man’s credentials.
Bascot was certain that, at this moment, as d’Arderon gazed towards the south coast of England, the preceptor wished to be a part of the contingent due to leave the next day. D’Arderon had been stationed in the Holy Land for many years and, during that time, had pitted his considerable strength and military expertise against the Saracens. It was probable that Emilius felt the same. Although the draper was two decades younger than the preceptor, he had, until his injury deprived him of the use of his arm, spent ten years fighting the Moors in Portugal. Neither man made complaint of their present situation, both content to serve Christ to the best of their abilities in any way they could, but now, contending with the murder of a woman in the preceptory’s chapel, and the resultant accusation that a Templar brother might be the cause of her death, both officers must long for the uncomplicated life of active duty.
Roget came riding down the hill just as the two knights were preparing to return to the enclave. The captain’s expression was grim and, when he came up to d’Arderon, he saluted the preceptor and told in a blunt fashion the grisly news of Adele Delorme’s death.
“Another harlot’s been murdered,” he said. “In the town. She was found last night, but it looks as though she has been dead for at least twelve hours. The sheriff went to his hunting lodge yesterday and Lady Nicolaa has despatched a servant to inform him of the death. It was she who sent me here.”