The Canterbury Murders (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Isabella and her attendants were quite comfortable in the guesthouse at the Priory of St. Sepulchre. In common with most religious establishments, the accommodations for travellers included separate quarters for those of higher station. Two rooms had been allotted to the queen, one a bedchamber with a comfortable bed for her and ample space for her two companions to lay their pallets on the floor, and the other fitted with a small table, chairs and a settle, comprising a small sitting room that could be used either for leisure or entertaining guests. The food was served in a small communal hall and was delicious, the table laid with pewter plates, fine linen napkins and an ample supply of sweet wine. Unfortunately there were no ladies of noble rank in the guesthouse at that time, and Isabella had elected to eat in the sitting room where a roaring fire was kept burning. Even though the nunnery was secluded, she found it far preferable to the gloomy fortress at Dover.

The Priory had been established in 1100 by Archbishop Anselm, and the Benedictine nuns that inhabited it were extremely pious; their daily fare, in contrast to that provided for their guests, was meager, and their regime strict, allowing conversation only when necessary and during the short time after Compline when communal interchange was allowed. Isabella and her ladies were hardly aware of the presence of the nuns; the only ones they came into contact with were the sister who was in charge of the guesthouse and a young novice that brought their food at mealtimes.

The journey from Dover, through bitter wind and gusting snowflakes, had tired all three women and by the time they reached their destination, they wanted no more than to throw off their heavy cloaks and rest. Now, however, they were all refreshed and beginning to become restless. The snow lay thick upon the ground and, although pathways had been cleared within the walls of the nunnery, there was nowhere for them to take any exercise. John had given Isabella strict instructions that she was not to stray outside the convent, and had left some mercenary soldiers to stand on guard outside, not only for her protection but also to ensure she did not disobey him.

The queen, sitting by the fire in a fur-lined gown, glanced across at her two attendants. They, like herself, were from the temperate lands in the south of France and finding the inclement weather extremely dreary. Yvette, the younger of the two companions, picked up her citole—a small musical instrument with four strings—and began to strum it in a desultory fashion. She was the daughter of a troubadour that had played in the court of Isabella’s father and was very skilled in the art of music. As she strummed the opening bars of
Can vei la lauzeta mover
, a song made popular by the troubadour Bernart de Ventadorn, and began to sing in her high clear voice the melancholy plaint of a thwarted lover’s sadness, moisture stung Isabella’s eyes and Marie, the more staid of the two attendants, also became tearful. The song reminded them of home—the bright blue sky, the dusty fields of grain and the hot scent of the honeysuckle that grew everywhere in wild profusion during the summer.

Isabella turned to stare into the flames of the fire. The music reminded her not only of Angoulême but also of Hugh de Lusignan, the man to whom she had been promised before John, in agreement with Isabella’s father, had succeeded in persuading her that becoming queen of England would be far more desirable than marriage to Hugh. She wondered now if that decision had been a mistake. At first, her life as John’s consort had been exciting and she had congratulated herself on the choice she had made. John had proved himself a handsome and attentive lover, her crowning in Westminster Abbey had been a display of much splendour and, to her gratification, she had received many compliments on her beauty and youthful grace. But then the problems with Arthur had arisen, and the attack on his grandmother at Mirabeau, a raid in which Arthur’s allies had been her former suitor Hugh of Lusignan and Hugh’s uncle, Geoffrey. She had been so proud of the way that John had immediately ridden to Eleanor’s defence and the military expertise he had shown in capturing Arthur and his allies. But her admiration had lately been replaced by resentment. Just a few months before they had journeyed to England, John had left her at Chinon in Touraine while he travelled south to assess the strength of his fortifications in that area, and his enemies had taken advantage of his absence to attack the castle in which she was staying. She had fully expected John to ride swiftly to her rescue—as he had done for his mother—but when he had been informed of her plight, he had sent a detachment of mercenaries to relieve her instead. For that she could not forgive him. If, as he said, he loved her beyond all else, he could at least have displayed the same devotion to her as he had shown to his dam.

Although Isabella, under the tutelage of her father, had been trained in statesmanship, she was not yet old enough to have outgrown, in her heart, the romantic inclinations of a young girl. Since the days of her infancy, she had listened to the minstrels in her father’s court sing of chivalry, and the lengths to which a lover would go to protect the well-being of the woman he admired, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. And yet John had relegated the safety of her person to a band of paid soldiers. Was this the action of the ardent lover he professed to be? She was certain that Hugh of Lusignan would not have treated her so shabbily.

She had also been discontented by the air of confusion that had taken place during the last months she and John had spent in Rouen, when the French king had attacked Normandy and many of her husband’s vassals had deserted him. John had railed against them, but to no avail, and had been moody and despondent ever since. And then there had been the rumours circulating about Arthur. She had heard what was being said about John’s treatment of his nephew—that he had tortured and murdered the lad—but when she had asked John about the truth of the tales, his reply had been terse, and he had merely said that Arthur was alive and that she was not, in future, to pay any attention to scurrilous gossip. She was hurt by his cursory dismissal, especially after she had read a letter from John’s mother that he had left lying in their bedchamber. In it, Queen Eleanor, after suggesting certain military strategies to use against the encroachment of the French, had made a reference to her grandson. Cryptically, she had written, “With regard to Arthur, be very careful and do not allow your thoughts to bedevil you.” It was obvious John had confided the problems he was having with his nephew to his mother; why had he not accorded the same deference to her, his wife?

And now these dreary murders had been committed. Isabella wrinkled her nose in distaste as she remembered her brief glimpse of the washerwoman’s dead body. She had never approved of John’s familiarity with this coarse servant and disagreed with his opinion that the killing, in some fashion, constituted a threat to him or herself. It was far more likely that the washerwoman’s death and the subsequent slaying of the steward had been the result of some sexual liaison between them, possibly perpetrated by a jealous lover. Although, she reflected, since the washerwoman had been fat and ugly, and the steward an elderly man, it was difficult to give much credence to this eventuality. But then, she decided, the common people of England had a strange affection for stodgy food; it would not be surprising if they also liked their women encased in lard.

She did not look forward, either, to the journey she was soon to make to Lincoln, even though she would be in the company of Nicolaa de la Haye, whose dry but acerbic wit she found entertaining. In this bitter weather, it would be not be a pleasant trek, and was one she would rather forego.

At that moment, Isabella was distracted from her moody reflections by Marie, who came forward with some sugared almonds that she had, she said, managed to coax the timid novice who brought their meals to fetch from the store of special foods kept aside for guests.

As Isabella, delighted, reached greedily for the comfits, Marie turned and spoke to the younger companion. “Play a more lively tune, Yvette,” she said. “Something that will cheer the queen out of the doldrums this dismal country is forcing upon her.”

The queen gave Marie a grateful look. The woman had not been long in her service, only since a few months before when, while they were in Rouen, Isabella’s previous attendant—an elderly woman who had looked after her since infancy—had succumbed to a wasting sickness and died. Casting her eyes over the maidservants in the castle for a suitable replacement, she had learned that Marie was from a small town in the south of Angoulême and had taken her into service. She was very glad she had done so. While the queen bore much love for little Yvette, her companion since the days of both their childhoods, the girl was naïve and could be giddy at times. Marie, with the wisdom of her more mature years, provided the stability that Isabella had been missing since her elderly companion had been taken from her, and gave the queen great solace with her sensible counsel. The queen also sensed in her a latent sensuousness, a passion that accorded with her own ardent nature, and which provided a welcome foil to Yvette’s youthful innocence.

“I beg you not to be disconsolate, lady,” Marie said to the queen. “I am certain that soon you will be released from the confines of this nunnery and residing in the comfort that is your right. And, if all goes well, you may, by spring, even be able to visit Angoulême.”

“I trust you are right, Marie,” Isabella replied. “I would most heartily welcome a sojourn in my own court.”

And, she thought, the chance to see Hugh again. She brought up his image in her mind, his dark hair and beard and flashing eyes.
Hugh le Brun
, he was called, and fittingly so. She wondered if it was he, as was suspected, who had sent an agent to murder John, and the slaying of the two servants had been connected to that commission. She shrugged. If that was so, she knew that she was in no danger, for Hugh would never allow her to be harmed. Just after her marriage to John he had sent her a secret message, declaring his undying love for her, and telling her that even though she was wed to another, he would find a way to make her his wife one day. A lascivious thrill of desire coursed through her loins as she remembered her former suitor’s boldness. Was that what Hugh was doing now—attempting to make her a widow so he could claim her for his bride? It could be so, she thought, and despite the knowledge that it was wicked, the notion did not displease her.

Chapter Twenty-six

In the Watling Street townhouse, Gianni was sitting in the hall, enveloped in a cloud of dejection. When the Templar had returned from the royal townhouse he had, without a word to Gianni, gone directly to speak with Lady Nicolaa. They had been closeted together now for more than an hour. Soon, the lad knew, the pair would be going to meet with the king at the cathedral priory, so it was obvious that Bascot had no intention of sharing the results of his visit to the royal townhouse that morning with anyone other than the castellan. In every other previous investigation of secret murder his former master had always discussed any information he had learned with Gianni. Why was he not doing so now?

For the first time since the Templar had rescued him from starvation, Gianni felt alone. After Bascot had rejoined the ranks of the Order, he had been comforted by the presence of those in Lincoln castle—John Blund, Lady Nicolaa’s elderly
secretarius
; Lambert, the other clerk in the scriptorium; and Ernulf, the crusty serjeant of the castle garrison. Now he sorely missed their presence, and wished that his mistress had left him behind when she journeyed to Canterbury.

A manservant came into the hall and, after tending to the fire in the hearth, laid out jugs of small ale and a selection of cheeses for any that wished to partake of refreshment. But for once the lad’s prodigious appetite failed him. He could not summon up any interest in food, and did not have any tasks to attend to. Earlier Lady Nicolaa had dictated a letter to him addressed to her husband, but after he had made a fair copy of the missive, she had dismissed him, saying she would arrange for it to be taken to the castle herself so that it could be forwarded by messenger to Lincoln. Now, at a loose end, and without any further involvement in the murder investigation to occupy his time, he had little to do but ponder on his misery.

At that moment, Miles came into the chamber and picked up some of the cheese, eating it while standing. The knight was cloaked and had a pair of gloves tucked in his belt, so Gianni presumed he was about to go to the castle and take Lady Nicolaa’s letter to Constable Criel for forwarding.

“Greetings, Gianni,” Miles said, walking over to the lad. “What are you doing here sitting in idleness? Have you no duties to attend to?”

Dolefully, Gianni gave a shake of his head. Miles regarded the boy for a moment, knowing that the cause of his discontent lay in the Templar’s dismissal of his services. The knight felt some degree of empathy for the young clerk. Miles, too, had been disappointed when his mistress had suddenly told him that he was no longer to be involved in the investigation. It had been an interesting experience, one that exercised the mind and stretched the imagination, and he would miss it. He had no doubt that Gianni, accustomed to being in the Templar’s confidence, was feeling the rejection much more strongly.

“Why not come with me to the castle?” Miles asked, attempting to find a way to lift the lad’s spirits. “It will do you good to get out in the fresh air, even if the weather is foul. And I would welcome your company,” he added sincerely. He had become fond of the young Sicilian, with his ready grin and sharp intelligence, and could understand why Bascot valued him so highly.

Gianni, glad of an excuse to leave the solitary confines of the hall, gave him a relieved nod of agreement and then ran to the entryway to don his cloak and furred hat.

***

The streets of Canterbury were littered with mounds of snow. Although the weather had remained clear, it was still very cold and there was a shiny crust of ice on the cobbles, making their passage slow. When they reached the intersection of Watling and Castle streets and turned in the direction of the castle, they could see a band of soldiers riding just ahead of them, also headed for the bail. All of the men-at-arms wore coats of mail and had an assortment of weapons hanging from their belts. At the head of the group was Chacal, spurring his mount along the street with little regard for any of the passersby on the thoroughfare, forcing them to step aside quickly if they wished to avoid being trodden under his horse’s hooves. Then they saw that one of the routiers was dragging a prisoner behind him, tied at the wrists by a leading rope and slipping and sliding over the icy ground as he fought to remain upright.

“That man Chacal has in tow,” Miles exclaimed, “that is Alfred, the manservant we suspected of lying. Come, lad, let us hurry and see why he has been arrested.”

When they reached the fortress, they left their horses at the stable and went up the forecastle steps and into the hall. The prisoner was nowhere in sight, and the mercenary band was already inside and helping themselves to mugs of ale from barrels at the back of the hall. The routiers were a rough crew, their accents harsh and larded with lewd oaths, and many of them bore the scars of their trade on their bodies—an unnatural twist of a nose that had been broken, missing teeth and hands that were gnarled and calloused. They reminded Gianni of the crew of a pirate ship that had once docked on the wharf in Palermo, violent men who had terrorised the other sailors in the port and the merchants that traded there. Chacal, his expression aloof, stood apart from the rest, his mouth twisted in a grim smile.

Criel was seated at the table on the dais in conversation with a knight who was a stranger to Gianni. When the constable saw Miles, he hailed him and asked him to join them for a cup of wine. As the knight went up to the dais, taking Lady Nicolaa’s letter from the breast of his tunic and handing it to Criel before sitting down, the constable introduced him to the knight, naming him as Godeschal de Socienne, the leader of the mercenary band employed by King John, and said that he had just arrived after escorting the king and queen back from Dover, installing Isabella at St. Sepulchre’s on the way and leaving some of his men to guard her. Gianni took up an unobtrusive position near the fireplace, and listened to the conversation as Miles asked Criel about the prisoner they had seen with Chacal.

“Is he the murderer?” Miles asked.

The constable shook his head. “It is not certain. Chacal told me that the Templar said only that he is to be held for further questioning, so I’ve had him put in a cell.”

“Well, I hope he is found to be guilty of the murders,” Godeschal said. “These killings have put John in a blazing temper, and Isabella as well. While this miscreant is on the loose, it makes my duty a difficult one; the king is starting at shadows for fear harm will come to the queen.”

Gianni glanced at de Socienne. He was a heavily built man, hard muscled and with a sword slash running across his chin that reminded the lad of Roget, the captain of Sir Gerard’s town guard in Lincoln, who had a similar scar on his visage, and whom Gianni was pleased to call a friend. Roget had once been a mercenary as well, fighting under the leadership of Mercadier, the captain of the band of paid soldiers that King Richard had taken with him on crusade. But despite the dangerous trade he had followed, Roget had his own code of honour, and a streak of pity in his heart for those who were weaker than himself. Godeschal de Socienne did not have the same air about him, and from the hard glint in his eyes he seemed rather to be a man who looked on the world with cynicism and little charity.

“Yes, the king can be choleric when aroused,” Criel agreed. “If this manservant is found not to be guilty of the crimes, I have no doubt John will look amongst the other household servants for the villain, and I do not think he will treat them gently.”

Miles lifted an eyebrow. “Torture, you mean?”

“Aye, likely so,” Criel replied morosely. “If that happens, it will create a touchy situation. Nearly all of the servants at the royal townhouse are from the Canterbury area and have many friends and family in the town. There is sure to be a strong protest if they are put to the test. And I have no fancy for being caught in the middle of it, nor of inflicting pain on any who may be innocent.”

“Such a task would not be troublesome to Chacal and his Brabançons,” de Socienne said with a sardonic chuckle. “They are angry at the accusation they allowed an intruder to get past them and would be eager for a chance to prove it was one of the servants. If John calls on me to provide men to carry out the examinations, I will assign it to them.”

As the conversation continued, Gianni’s gaze drifted back to Chacal, who had removed his helm, revealing dark hair pulled sleekly back against his scalp and tied at the nape with a leather thong. His pale flat eyes looked merciless. Gianni shivered, and fervently hoped the king would not give an order for the servants to be tried by torture. There would not be any mercy in such a man.