by Maureen Ash
“I will keep a careful eye on them,” Thorson promised, “and a word from me will ensure that none of the boats putting into our harbour will take them on board, as crew or otherwise. If any of them, including Sven and Joan, do not report to me exactly as you directed, I will place the others under arrest and lock them up in the town gaol to await Sheriff Camville’s pleasure.”
T HAT SAME AFTERNOON, SHORTLY BEFORE THE WORKING DAY in the scriptorium drew to a close, John Blund gave Gianni’s note to Nicolaa de la Haye, as he had promised. The castellan had just finished dictating the last letter of the day and was about to dismiss Blund when he handed her the piece of parchment on which the boy had written his speculations about the son of one of her tenants.
“Young Gianni asked me to give you this, lady,” the secretary said. “The boy feels there might be some connection between these recent murders and a person whose name was recorded in one of the documents he was copying.”
Nicolaa scanned the paper and looked thoughtful. “Have you read this, John?” she asked.
“I have,” Blund assured her. “The hypothesis may seem nebulous but, bearing in mind Gianni often observed facts that were of assistance to Sir Bascot when the Templar was investigating similar mysterious deaths, I thought it only right to bring his observations to your attention.”
Nicolaa nodded. “And you were quite right to do so, John,” she assured him. “As you say, his postulations are uncertain, and all of them would hinge on whether or not Roulan joined the Templars or some other monastic order. If it was, indeed, the Templars that he joined and, as my bailiff told Lambert, was forced by pressure from his family into taking holy orders over his licentious ways, it is quite possible, as Gianni suggests, that he left behind someone who was devastated by his leaving. A girl he had promised to marry, perhaps, and considered his desertion a betrayal. Especially if she was enceinte. The humiliation of bearing an unwanted child is a stigma that is not short-lived. It could easily foster hate in her heart, one that has festered, and is now directed both at the Templars for taking her lover away from her, and prostitutes for being the cause of his downfall.”
She thought about the notion for a moment before speaking again. “The more I consider the suggestion, John, the more viable it seems. We have good cause to remember that it was a woman who was responsible for wreaking havoc in Lincoln once before and caused a number of deaths before de Marins discovered her identity. It could have been a female that enticed Elfreda to the Templar chapel and also knocked at Adele Delorme’s door. Neither harlot would have been as wary of one of their own gender as they would have been of a man.”
She looked down at the paper and studied it further. Finally, she made her decision. “It is best to wait for de Marins and Roget to return from Grimsby before looking into the background of Jacques Roulan. If their journey has been successful, it may prove unnecessary. But if they return empty-handed, I will ensure Gianni’s suggestion is conveyed to the Templar as soon as possible. In the meantime, send an instruction to my bailiff at Brattleby. Tell him to report to me at once. It was from him that this rumour about Roulan came; perhaps he knows more details about the matter. If any are pertinent, I will add them to Gianni’s message before I pass it along to de Marins.”
As Blund prepared to leave, Nicolaa added, “And, John, convey to Gianni my commendation for his initiative. The boy has an intelligent and enquiring mind, we must do all we can to foster its development.”
Seventeen
It was late in the afternoon of the next day before Bascot and Roget returned to Lincoln. The Templar turned off the road just before they reached the gate into the town and took the track that led around the city walls to the preceptory, while the captain went directly to the castle to report to the sheriff.
It was almost the hour of Vespers when Bascot rode into the commandery. The brothers were beginning to gather in the compound, waiting for the small bell atop the chapel to ring and signal it was time to attend the late afternoon service. All eyes turned towards Bascot as he rode his horse to the stables and gave it into the care of a groom. He saw no disquiet on the faces of the men that formed the delayed contingent, only resignation mixed with a tiny glimmer of hope that he had at last discovered information that would exonerate them of culpability and allow them to leave.
Serjeant Hamo was standing near the blacksmith’s forge. When Bascot entered the commandery, he gave the knight a brief nod and then strode across the training area and through the door at the rear of the refectory that led to d’Arderon’s office. The serjeant was gone for only a few moments and, when he reappeared, walked over to Bascot and told him that the preceptor would be pleased to hear his report of what had transpired at Grimsby as soon as the service of Vespers was done.
The bell above the chapel began to chime and Bascot followed the others into the church. With so many extra men in the commandery, the small chapel was crowded, and each man brushed the shoulders of those standing next to him. As Brother John opened the service with the prayer of lauds for the dead, Bascot felt a deep sorrow rise within him. It was a familiar emotion, one that had occurred during every previous case of murder he had investigated. The wilful slaying of another human being reminded him of a poisonous creeping plant, spreading its miasma from the dead person to everyone associated with the victim. The murder of the prostitute in the chapel where he was now standing had left Elfie’s little daughter, Ducette, an orphan. And whether or not Scallion’s death was connected to the killings in Lincoln, his murder in a heathen brothel had brought deep grief to his sister, Joan, and his lifelong friend, the steersman Askil. Murder not only spawned death, but also grief in equal measures. The act was insidious.
When the service was over, Bascot went directly to d’Arderon’s office. After the long ride from Grimsby, during which he and Roget had stopped only to partake of the provisions Thorson’s wife had thoughtfully packed for them, Bascot was hungry, but he would have to wait until after he had spoken to d’Arderon to partake of the light evening meal that was being served in the refectory.
Emilius was with the preceptor when Bascot went into d’Arderon’s office. Both men listened without speaking as they were told of the conversation Bascot and Roget had with Bailiff Thorson and their interviews with Joan Scallion and subsequently, her husband, Askil, and Dunny. He then went on to relate Thorson’s suggestion that it was possible that one, or both, of the seamen could have reached Lincoln via the Ancholme River and committed the murders.
“We must fervently hope that the charge against our brother in Acre is false,” d’Arderon said, “but whether it is or not, if the relatives and friends of the boat owner believe it to be true, it is conceivable that one of them is seeking revenge for his death. If that is what happened, then all of our brothers in the preceptory can be absolved of guilt.”
Emilius immediately concurred, and Bascot could see the glimmer of hope on their faces. The rumour that it had been a Templar who had murdered a Christian in the Holy Land was a stigma on the Order, but Acre was far away and the truth about the incident may not be learned for many months, if at all; their first priority must be to absolve, if they could, the brothers stationed in the Lincoln commandery. It was with great reluctance that he dashed the two officers’ burgeoning optimism as he explained that two of the men in the contingent, Alan of Barton and Thomas of Penhill, could quite easily have been friends, perhaps of long standing, of the dead boat owner.
“Scallion did most of the English end of his business with merchants in Hull,” he told them. “He loaded commodities, mainly wool, from the Yorkshire area and, for a commission from local merchants, delivered them to ports in Flanders and Normandy. He would then, apparently, travel down the coast of the Iberian Peninsula, stopping at ports in Spain and Portugal and buying items such as wine, furs and even small loads of timber that would be easy to sell to merchants in the Holy Land. Once in Outremer, he made his regular purchase of the onions that had proved such a popular item,
along with a small supply of spices and silk, and returned home, selling the cargo at ports along the way. Each voyage might take him a year or more, but he usually returned to Grimsby at the end of each trip to visit his sister before going to Hull to arrange his cargo for the next journey. Since this would necessitate spending some weeks in the Hull area, it is feasible he would have been known in Barton and quite probably Faxfleet, and could have come into contact with both Alan and Thomas.”
The information slightly daunted the preceptor, but he took the time to reflect on what Bascot had told him. “That may be true of Alan,” he said finally, “for he admits that he grew up in Barton, but not necessarily of Thomas. Delivering the preceptory’s horses to Faxfleet would only bring him into contact with the captain and crew of a ship belonging to the Order. He would have no reason to mingle with crews of other vessels anchored along the estuary. It is quite possible he may never have heard of Scallion, let alone met him.”
“I agree, Preceptor,” Bascot said. “But I still think it would be prudent to question Thomas as well as Alan. We must be certain that neither man knew the trader before we can acquit them of any involvement in his death.”
“If they are guilty, they will lie, and will be warned of our interest in them,” Emilius said in a depressed manner.
“That may not be an undesirable outcome, Draper,” Bascot replied. “If one, or both, is responsible for the harlots’ deaths, knowing of our suspicion will prevent them from making an attempt on the life of another prostitute. That alone makes questioning them worthwhile.”
Emilius reluctantly nodded and then said to d’Arderon, “And the rest of the contingent, Preceptor, if they are now deemed clear of involvement, will you allow them to depart for Plymouth? All of them grow restless with the delay. Such a mood is not beneficial for morale.”
“They will suffer far worse discomfort when they are forced to camp in the arid terrain of Portugal,” d’Arderon growled. “The experience will teach them patience.”
“As you command, Preceptor,” Emilius replied constrainedly. “It is merely that with this aura of suspicion laying over all of us, I am concerned that the dedication of those who are recently initiated will suffer.”
D’Arderon sighed and relented a little. He knew that the draper was trying to maintain a semblance of order. “You are right, of course, Emilius. We must encourage the men, especially those who have recently taken their vows. I will wait to see the outcome of Sheriff Camville’s enquiries about Sven Grimson. After that is done, I will reassess the situation.”
The preceptor spoke to Bascot. “It is too late in the day now, but in the morning we will question Alan and Thomas. Hopefully their answers will clear them of suspicion.”
In the castle, after Roget made his report to Gerard Camville, the sheriff directed John Blund to pen a message that was to be sent to the king’s authorities in Hull. In it, the secretary was to write a request that enquiries be made of the men who Grimson had claimed would substantiate that the fisherman and his wife were in the port during the time the harlots were murdered. Camville also instructed the secretary to add a directive that if Grimson proved to be telling the truth, the port-reeves along the estuary were to be asked if any had knowledge of where he had anchored his vessel during his stay.
“Thorson states that if Grimson moored his craft on the southern shore of the Humber, it would have been much easier for the seamen to take a skiff to the mouth of the Ancholme River,” Camville said, “so it is important that, if possible, the bailiff’s supposition is verified. Ensure that requirement is made clear in the message, Blund, as is the need for haste.”
The secretary dutifully wrote the letter, using words of his own composition. Although Gerard Camville was competent enough in numeracy, he had little skill with literacy, and once Blund finished the document he read aloud what he had written. The sheriff nodded and appended his signature to the document.
“Send one of the men-at-arms off with that at first light. With good fortune, we may have an answer within three or four days.”
Later that evening, Nicolaa De La Haye sent a manservant to find Gianni and bid him attend her in the castle solar. Gianni was in the barracks when the manservant came with the message, sitting with some of the off-duty men-at-arms and listening to them challenge each other with simple riddles. The boy jumped up immediately when he learned that Lady Nicolaa wished to see him and hastily smoothed down his unruly mop of dark brown curls and gave a straightening tug to his tunic. Then he ran as fast as he could across the bail and into the keep. His heart was filled with trepidation as he sped up the stairs of the tower in the western corner of the fortress and to the room on the top storey where Nicolaa was wont to take her leisure after the evening meal. The castellan must have sent for him because of the letter he had given to Master Blund. Even though the secretary had relayed her commendation of his initiative, Gianni still feared the reason for her summons. She had always been kind to him, but she was a lady who held the reins of great power in her capable hands and one who would not look kindly on any action she perceived as insolent. Had she sent for him because even though she accepted the merit of his observations, she was angry that he, a lowly apprentice clerk, had dared to ask her to forward a message to his former master? Did she see his action as one that smacked of conceit? Was it possible he was about to be reprimanded, or even dismissed from his post? He tried to push his fears from his mind as he cautiously pushed open the door of the solar and looked about the large room for Lady Nicolaa.
The chamber was almost empty. It was used primarily by the castellan and it was here, when she had female guests, that she entertained them. There were a number of beautiful tapestries on the walls and comfortable settles placed about the room. The pleasant aroma of cloves emanated from a small brazier burning in one corner. Some of the senior members of her household retinue were also permitted to take a part of their leisure hours within the chamber and now, at the far end of the room, the mistress of the wardrobe sat with two of the castle sempstresses conversing quietly among themselves.
Lady Nicolaa’s diminutive figure was seated in a comfortable chair at the opposite end of the chamber, in front of a fireplace heaped with lengths of wood but, due to the warmth of the weather, was unlit. Gianni didn’t know whether to enter the room or wait until someone saw him but his dilemma was soon resolved when the castellan turned her head in his direction and beckoned him to come forward. When his reluctant steps brought him up beside her chair, she gave him a smile.
“I usually take a cup of hot cider at this time of the day,” she said. “On the table over there you will find a newly filled jug. Pour me a cup and, if you would like to taste it, you may take a small measure for yourself.”
With shaking hands, Gianni did as she had bid, almost spilling the fragrant apple drink as he carried it to where she was sitting. When he had poured a drop in one of the cups for himself, she motioned for him to be seated on a stool near her feet. He noticed some rolled up sheets of parchment lying on a small table beside her chair. They had been secured with a length of yellow ribbon.
“When Master Blund gave me the message you wish passed to Sir Bascot,” she said, “I read with interest your comments about Jacques Roulan and the possibility that his entry into a monastic order may be connected to the recent murders.”
Gianni held his breath. He was too nervous to take a sip of the steaming cider and the heat of it through the sides of the fragile pottery cup was burning his hand. With a thudding heart, he waited for Lady Nicolaa to continue.
“Your hypothesis hinges, of course, on whether or not it was the Templars that Roulan joined. Since I felt it would be wise to first ascertain whether that was so before I passed your message on to Sir Bascot, I sent for my bailiff at Brattleby, the one whose conversation with Lambert set your thoughts in motion.”
Nicolaa paused for a moment and took a sip of cider. “I spoke to my bailiff today and it seems that it was, in fact, the T
emplar Order that Jacques Roulan entered and that his reputation was every bit as licentious as the original remarks implied. Even though my husband is, at the moment, making enquiries that might lead in quite a different direction, they have not, as yet, proved conclusive and so I have decided that your suppositions might just possibly be relevant.”
Nicolaa noticed that her assurances made the young lad relax. He had been fearful, she knew, that his request would seem impudent. But she had come to have a great regard for the Templar’s intelligence during the two years he had been in her service and thought that this boy, whether the talent had been imparted by his former master or stemmed from his own abilities, showed promise of being cast in the same mould. She was also aware that the lack of Bascot’s protection had made the boy insecure and it was her intention to try and bolster the boy’s confidence. She had promised the Templar that she would oversee Gianni’s welfare and had every intention of doing all she could to ensure her pledge was fulfilled.
Reaching out, she picked up the roll of papers. “To that end, and because the Templars may have information about Jacques Roulan that I, or my husband, are not privy to, it is best that Sir Bascot be told of your conjectures. I have here the notes you wrote and a covering letter detailing my conversation with my bailiff. In the morning you will take it to the Templar enclave and give it to your former master. When you do so, you can answer any questions he may have about the content.”
Gianni’s face went white with panic. Surely the castellan knew he was too young to be admitted to the preceptory. How could he ever complete the task she had set him?
Nicolaa smiled, well aware of the reason for the concern so obviously delineated on his face. “Gianni, although you do not know the exact year of your birth you must, by now, be about fourteen years old. Many of the squires in my husband’s retinue are the same age,” she told him in a mildly admonishing tone, “and are given a man’s responsibilities. You even have the beginnings of down on your upper lip to prove you are past childhood. You will not be barred entry into the enclave.”