by Maureen Ash
Roget gave Ernulf a sideways glance. The scar that ran down the side of the captain’s face puckered as he mused on the serjeant’s words. “That is my opinion also, mon ami,” he finally said. “The sheriff will not be pleased at my lack of success, but I do not think we will get any further with this miscreant. Guilty of taking the deer he may be, but of the other…I am beginning to doubt it.”
With a brief command to his two men, Roget stopped Fulcher’s punishment and told them to leave. When they had gone, laughing as they did so about how great a thirst their exertions had built up, Roget went forward and released the outlaw’s wrists from the pole. Fulcher slumped to the ground, eyes shut and breath shallow. Between them, Roget and Ernulf lifted the comatose brigand onto a straw pallet and threw a threadbare blanket over him.
“I’ll send one of my men with food and water, although I think perhaps it will be futile,” Ernulf said, leaning over and feeling the pulse in Fulcher’s throat. “He is still alive, but barely. Your men did their work a little too well.”
Roget regarded the outlaw, the bruises that swelled his face, the split lips and grotesquely puffed eyelids. The rough tunic he had been wearing was split in several places, blood seeping through the torn cloth like sap bubbling from the cracked bark of a tree. Roget gave a Gallic shrug of his burly shoulders. “Perhaps. But if he dies, it may be a mercy. He will hang whether he killed the boy or not. It is the penalty for poaching and the sheriff will be only too pleased to inflict the punishment.”
The two men walked to the door and went out into the bail. Ernulf threw the iron bolt that locked the door from the outside. Pulling a wineskin from his belt, Roget took a large mouthful and passed the flask to the serjeant. Above them the sky was darkening into evening. The air was cold and clear. Around them the bailey was settling down for the night, and the muted sounds of servants finishing their tasks for the day drifted towards them-the clank of a bucket, the mournful protest of a cow being penned in for the night, the call of the castle guards as they changed shifts.
The captain took another swig from his wineskin, his brow furrowed in thought. “Something bothering you, Roget?” Ernulf asked.
“I am wondering how it came to be that it was Copley who caught the wolf’s head we have in there. The sheriff’s chase is not in his bailiwick, is it?”
Ernulf shrugged. “No, but as agent for the chief forester he has a right to be in any part of the woodland. All belong to the king, even Camville’s chase. And the chief forester is the king’s officer and so, therefore, is Copley.”
“I do not mean that, my friend. What I mean is that Copley is renowned for his love of wine, not for his attachment to duty. Not that I find fault with that, of course,” Roget’s mouth split in a wide grin, revealing teeth that were still sound, but gapped in places. “But does it not strike you to wonder why Copley, who finds it such a great effort to carry out his normal responsibilities, should suddenly engage in extra labour by patrolling a part of the forest where he has no reason to go? And then, while he is doing this, he has the great good fortune to stumble across an outlaw poaching the sheriff’s deer? It seems to me most strange.”
Ernulf pondered Roget’s words then reached for his companion’s wine and took a deep draught. “Strange it may be,” he said, “but I cannot see anything untoward in it.”
“Think, Ernulf, think! The sheriff looks for an answer to the riddle of who killed the squire. Lady Nicolaa also looks for this. They ask questions, set the Templar to ask more. Suddenly, they have the culprit-a brigand provided by Copley. That chien in there”-Roget nodded in the direction of the cell-“will hang for taking the sheriff’s deer. Once he is dead, it takes only a little step of the imagination for everyone to believe he also killed the squire. Who is to prove different?” Roget’s eyes sparkled as he propounded his theory. “It is a tidy answer. Me, I do not believe providence smiles so easily.”
“Nor do I, Roget,” Ernulf replied musingly. “Nor do I.” He handed the wineskin back to the captain. “I think I will have a private word with Bascot. And with Lady Nicolaa.”
The smell of blood hung in the air as Gianni passed through the western gate of the castle bail. Today was the eleventh of November, St. Martin’s day, and the traditional time of the year to slaughter animals too old or infirm to warrant being fed throughout the winter. Within the castle, in the town, and out in the villages dotted around the countryside, cattle, sheep and swine had been butchered during the last few days and their carcasses readied for preservation by salting or smoking. But first there would be a feast of fresh meat, to celebrate the saint’s day, and Gianni felt his mouth water at the prospect.
Resolutely he put the thought of food from his mind. He had met with no difficulty from the guards on the gate as he had passed through. There were many people coming and going-tradesmen, merchants, villagers, servants and a few guests-so that he had been able to slip past unnoticed. He set out towards the Fossdyke and, as he walked, turned over in his mind what he had heard that morning.
He had been present when his master had talked to the dark-haired young knight called Godfroi, and his sister, Marie, and had heard Bascot asking them if they had any knowledge of their half brother, Hubert, being involved in a plot to depose King John from his throne. Godfroi had been angry at the accusation, but the Templar had calmed him, saying it was a rumour that must be looked into before it spread and was acknowledged as truth. The girl, Marie, had added her plea to Bascot’s words and Godfroi, still surly, had assured the Templar that if Hubert had, by some chance, been involved in such machinations, then it was without the knowledge or agreement of the rest of his family.
“My brother and I are as loyal to the king as my father was to Richard, and Henry before him,” Godfroi had insisted. “Never has any of our family betrayed their liege lord, not even when Stephen took the throne from his cousin Matilda. We kept to the oath we had sworn to her father, and helped Henry retrieve his inheritance.” Marie had placed a hand on her brother’s arm, showing her support.
“And your kinsman, Eustace de Vescy-the boy spoke of his involvement, and that Hubert was privy to plans that were being made,” Bascot said.
Now Godfroi had laughed out loud, more amused than angry. “If de Vescy was ever forming such a plot-and I, for one, am sure it is untrue-such a great lord would hardly divulge his schemes to a stripling related to him only by the meagrest thread of blood. Were it not so serious, it would be laughable.”
Bascot had then sent Gianni to fetch more victuals from the kitchen. The Templar had met the brother and sister just after early Mass and they had taken seats in a corner of the hall to break their fast. Godfroi had proved to be a prodigious trencherman, especially when fuelled by anger, and he had quickly devoured all that Gianni had set before them, including the small loaf of fine manchet bread reserved for those of higher rank. Even though Marie had denied being hungry, Bascot hoped that another plate of food might tempt her to take some nourishment.
It was as Gianni was returning from the kitchen that he heard something that had interested him. He was in the covered walkway that connected the building that housed the cook’s ovens with the great hall, and had been forced to step aside into the entryway to wait for a gap to appear in the press of servants running to and fro with platters of food. A little way behind him, two merchants of the town had been standing, conversing quietly in low tones. Presumably they were there on matters of supplying provisions to the castle and were waiting to speak to the Haye steward. At first Gianni had taken no notice of them, but then the context of their discourse had intrigued him and he had edged closer, hoping to hear more, counting on the dense throng of scurrying servants to conceal the fact that he was listening. He had stood some minutes thus, then slid silently away before his eavesdropping became obvious.
Now, as he crossed the Fossdyke, dodging carts laden with supplies and mounted travellers bound for Lincoln or the Torksey road, he ruminated on his decision to leave the castle wi
thout his master’s knowledge. It was the first time he had ever done such a thing, and was an action he had never even once contemplated from the day the Templar had rescued him from starvation. But his reasons were simple. He knew that his master was beginning to feel a desire to rejoin the Templar Order. When Bascot had returned to the castle after spending the night at the preceptory, it was obvious how much he had enjoyed the visit with his former comrades. He had spoken longingly to Ernulf of old friends he had met and the battles they had discussed. At first Gianni had been angry and felt betrayed, but he had not let it show, for he knew that would hurt his master and be harsh repayment for all the largesse the Templar had bestowed on him. But, if his master should go back to the Order, Gianni would be forced to fend for himself, and he was ill equipped to do so.
At Lincoln castle he had a place he belonged and where food and warm clothing were in plentiful supply. But if the Templar went away, there would be no more use for his servant within the castle walls. Ernulf might take pity on him and feed him for a while, but it was more probable he would be thrown out of the castle gates, his only option to beg on the streets. To ensure that such a fate did not overtake him, he must make himself valuable to others besides his master. If he could uncover some information that would lead to finding out the identity of the man who had murdered the squire, and do so without the Templar’s help, then Lady Nicolaa might realise his worth, perhaps even give him a place in her retinue. Under such influential patronage he need have no more fear of being homeless and hungry.
This was the reason he had decided to steal away from the Templar, to try to find out if the gossip he had overheard that morning was the truth. The dairymaid, Bettina, would be able to tell him, or one of the other people in the village. Gianni was sure the priest of the hamlet, Samson, was literate. There had been scraps of parchment and a quill pen on a shelf in the tiny chapel where Bascot had spoken to the villagers. Since Gianni had been taught to read and write by the Templar, he could, through Samson, ask the questions that would prove the validity of the tale he had overheard. If it was true, then he was sure he had discovered a lie that had been told. He remembered when, earlier that year, he and his master had tracked down a murderer in Lincoln town, and how the Templar had come upon the truth by unmasking the lies that had been told; and the manner in which one lie had led to another, and yet another, until all was revealed. Perhaps he could do the same thing now, on his own.
As Gianni left the Fossdyke and struck out across the marshy land to the west, he hastened his steps. It was a long way to Bettina’s village and he would need to get there and back again before the Templar found he was missing. As he ran he pictured in his imaginative young mind the accolades that would be heaped on his head if he was successful in his quest. Already he was gaining fast in literacy, due to the lessons the Templar had been giving him. After today, he would be praised not only for his learning, but also for his quick mind. One day soon, he assured himself, he would be trusted with tasks of importance, perhaps even, in time, become a secretarius to Lady Nicolaa herself. His inability to speak would be of little significance, he would be prized as a servant of the highest rank, and it would all be due to the conversation he had overheard that day.
Eighteen
Theheavy wain that bore Hubert’s coffin stood near the eastern gate of the bail with Godfroi de Tournay, Nicolaa de la Haye, Gerard Camville, and their son Richard all gathered to bid Marie and de Vetry farewell on their sad journey. Godfroi fussed with the dun-coloured palfrey his sister was to ride, checking the set of the saddle and asking Richard if he was sure the horse was placid enough to warrant no danger to Marie.
“We are only going as far as the river, Godfroi,” Marie protested. “From there de Vetry has hired a boat to take us to Boston. It will be an easier journey than by road and I shall have no need of a mount. This one will do very well for the short distance to the quay.” She shook her head in impatience. “Tell him, Joscelin, that there is no need for concern.”
The goldsmith moved forward, ignoring the look of dislike on Godfroi’s face. “I shall ensure that both your sister and the body of poor Hubert come to no harm. I will be with them all the way.”
Godfroi did no more than nod his acceptance of the goldsmith’s words, then made a point of ignoring him, turning to make conversation with Richard. Across the ward, the squires and pages of William Camville’s retinue were again at practice with the quintain, ignoring with youthful exuberance the sharpness of the cold wind and spatters of freezing rain that tossed around their heads.
To one side, Bascot and Ernulf stood watching the cortege prepare to depart, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, overlooked the group from the shelter of the keep’s entryway. Young Baldwin had remained in his chamber, the weather being too inclement for him to venture outside, and his betrothed, Alys, had stayed with him to keep him company. Those servants who were going about their duties in the great expanse of the ward steered a wide path around the wagon, attempting to avoid the truculent gaze of Gerard Camville as they passed by.
Nicolaa placed her hand soothingly on Marie’s arm. “Do not fret about your brother’s concern,” she said quietly. “It is just his distress about this matter that rises to the surface. He will calm when he hears that you have arrived safely in Boston. I have instructed one of my men-at-arms to accompany you and return with all speed to let us know you have done so.”
“Thank you, lady,” Marie said, her dark eyes filling with sudden tears. With an effort, she stemmed them and said, with a quaver in her voice, “I must admit my own temper is frayed. Telling Hubert’s mother how he met his death will not be easy. And I fear that she will want the coffin opened. I do not know, in all conscience, how I can prevent that. If she insists, it may well be that the sight of his poor body will be too much for her. She is not a very strong person and he was, after all, her only son and dear to her.”
“A child’s death is never easy for a mother,” Nicolaa responded. “But God will give you guidance, child, if you ask for it. Our prayers are with you.”
Marie nodded in acquiescence and mounted her palfrey. As she did so, a pair of riders entered the bail, a woman mounted on a fine black mare caparisoned in red and blue, and a man astride a dark bay alongside her. Both were wrapped in heavy cloaks, the woman’s hood trimmed with soft fur. They rode up to the funeral party and the man hastened to help his companion alight from her mount.
As the pair approached the small gathering, Ernulf let out a low chuckle and said to Bascot, “The Fleming woman has picked a poor day to seek an audience. Lady Nicolaa is not overfond of her at the best of times and I am sure she will give her short shrift on such a sad day.”
Bascot looked at the pair, recognising the agister, Copley, but not the woman who was with him. He asked Ernulf who she was, and the serjeant explained, “That is Melisande Fleming, chief forester for Lincoln. She is also heir to her late husband’s gold manufactory, and is ever trying to curry favour with Lady Nicolaa, hoping she can persuade her to use her influence with the king to bring more offices and commissions Melisande’s way. She is a greedy woman, the Fleming widow.”
“And Copley, the agister,” Bascot asked, “is he connected to her in some way other than holding his office from her?”
“They are related,” Ernulf replied. “Cousins of some distance, I believe, but it is said Copley hopes a closer relationship will develop. If he were to wed Melisande, the contents of her coffers would pay for enough wine to drown himself in.” The serjeant shook his grizzled head. “But the fool has little cause to hope. There are many men in Lincoln who sniff at the widow’s skirts, but she keeps them all dangling, like fish on a line. I doubt she will marry again. She is too fond of her wealth to give it over to the control of a husband.”
Bascot watched as Marie and de Vetry settled themselves on their horses and the men-at-arms of the escort took up positions in front and behind the cortege as it slowly exited the bail through the east g
ate. After they had left, Gerard Camville, with his son and Godfroi, walked over to the practice ground to watch the squires at their exertions, leaving Nicolaa to walk back to the keep with Melisande and Copley at her elbow.
“Come, de Marins,” Ernulf said, “let’s go and find something hot to warm our bellies. And a pot of ale to wash it down.”
Bascot readily agreed and, for the first time that morning, noticed that Gianni was not with him. He was so used to the boy dogging his every step that he had assumed the lad was waiting nearby, out of the coldness of the wind. But his servant was nowhere to be seen. Bascot shrugged it off. The lad was showing some independence lately and it was most likely he had found a task that would give him an excuse to stay indoors and keep warm. Hunching his shoulders against the swirling flakes of snow that were hesitantly beginning to fall, Bascot felt that he could not blame the boy for doing so.
At about the same time as Bascot and Ernulf were eating a tasty rabbit pottage and drinking their ale, Gianni was beginning to wish he had not embarked on his venture alone. He began to realise how foolish he had been. Even if his suspicions were confirmed and proved to be pertinent, how could he prevent the villagers from alerting the man about whom the questions had been asked? He was only a boy, and a servant, with no authority to enforce their silence. Nicolaa de la Haye would not praise him; she would castigate him for his stupidity. The Templar might even be so angry at his interference that he would cast him back out into the streets to beg for his bread. Besides, the distance to the village was greater than he remembered and the solitude of the forest was frightening. He felt his heart begin to hammer with trepidation as he became aware of how far he was from all that was familiar. No, he had been wrong to come on this fool’s errand alone. He was pazzo, he said to himself in his native Italian. Daft in the head and an idiota as well. He must return to Lincoln, and return at once.