The Canterbury Murders (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

In the cathedral guesthouse on the west side of the precincts, the king and Hubert Walter were seated at the oak table in the sitting room, drinking wine and waiting for Bascot and Nicolaa to arrive.

The archbishop picked up his cup of chased silver and took a sip before saying cautiously, “Do you not think this meeting with Lady Nicolaa might be precipitous, sire? Would it not be wiser to let her indignation cool a little before commanding her to your presence?”

John shook his head. “You have made her acquaintance only recently, Hubert, while I have known her for many years. Once she is set on a course, she will not swerve from it, no matter how much time passes. For the sake of our long friendship, I will try to heal the breach between us this afternoon, but,” he added darkly, “if she continues to be persistent in her disapproval, then I will have no choice but to view her with distrust.”

“She does not seem to be a woman who would break her word,” Walter opined.

“Up until now, I would have agreed,” John replied, “but her recent intransigence has made me uncertain and I need to test her loyalty.”

“And how will you do that?” the archbishop asked.

“The Templar is a man of high principle; if she has told him the reason for my caution, I am certain he will not be able to dissemble, which is, my dear archbishop, the reason I requested that they both be present today. De Marins’ reaction to any questions I put to him will soon tell me if Nicolaa has betrayed my confidence, and whether or not I can still rely on her.”

Hubert Walter made no comment. The convoluted machinations of John’s mind seemed to be endless and marked the difference between himself and the king. The diplomacy the archbishop often employed was a useful tool; John’s devious manipulation was not. And, to his sorrow, he believed that the king was unable to recognise the difference between them.

***

As Bascot and Nicolaa were riding towards the cathedral, the Templar asked her if she knew the reason for the king’s summons.

“No. He has not deemed it necessary to apprise me,” she replied with a flicker of irritation. “But whatever John’s purpose,” she continued in a less abrasive tone, “it will be an opportune moment to tell him of Alfred’s arrest and, more importantly, of the new information revealed by the bath attendant.”

Bascot nodded. “And to ask that I be allowed to interview the queen and her companions.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “It is imperative that you find out if they know of anyone in the royal entourage, other than themselves, that speak
langue d’oc
. If they do, that person must immediately be taken into custody for interrogation.”

A tinge of hopefulness had crept into her voice as she finished speaking and it reminded the Templar that earlier, when he had related what Aquarius had told him and had suggested that if such a person existed it was possible they were in the pay of Hugh of Lusignan, she had seemed relieved and more than willing to accept his premise. It could well be that Lusignan was behind these attacks, she had agreed, for John had not only snatched away Isabella, the wealthy bride that had been promised to him, but had also, after taking Hugh captive at Mirabeau, weighed him down with chains and dragged him through the streets of the town. Such a public humiliation would most certainly have fuelled Lusignan’s thirst for vengeance. It would therefore not be surprising, she had surmised, if Hugh, who had recently been released from prison, had sent an assassin to murder the king.

“It is a likely scenario,” Bascot had opined. “And would provide a motive for the slaying of the washerwoman. If Lusignan’s agent feared she had become a threat to him, killing her would be the surest way to prevent her from telling John of her suspicions. That would also apply to Inglis, in case she had made him privy to her conjectures.”

Nicolaa had nodded. “You must certainly follow up this line of enquiry, de Marins, and the obvious place to start is by interviewing the queen and her two ladies. But you must have John’s sanction first. He is very protective of her and you will never gain access to her presence otherwise.”

Now, as they approached the entrance to the cathedral grounds on Burgate Street, Bascot said to her, “I am certain John will make no demur about giving his permission. It is the most logical way to proceed.”

“I concur,” Nicolaa replied crisply, and then added, in a tone that caused Bascot to glance at her in surprise, “But I have learned that when one is dealing with the king it is best not to make assumptions.”

***

On their arrival they were taken by the hosteler, the monk in charge of the guesthouse, to the room where John was ensconced. After being ushered into the chamber, they found cups of mulled wine awaiting them, and a warm welcome from the king.

As soon as they entered, John rose from his seat and came forward to where Nicolaa was standing, telling her he was most pleased to be sharing her company once again, and bidding her to take the seat beside him as he filled her wine goblet with his own hands. The castellan was polite, but distant, and confirmed Bascot’s opinion that her recent mood of distraction was linked to the king. A glance at Hubert Walter, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable as he nodded genially in their direction, gave evidence that he, as well as Nicolaa, was not pleased to be at this meeting.

Once all of them were seated, and with wine cups in their hands, John said smoothly, “I have summoned both of you here to discuss the progress of the investigation. For her safety, I have been forced to leave Queen Isabella at the nunnery of St. Sepulchre and she chafes at the restriction, as do I. In your opinion, de Marins, do you think you are making any progress towards identifying the murderer?”

John was at his most charming, and attired to suit his royal station. His short dark beard had been smoothed with scented oil and he wore an elegant combination of a fur-lined surcote of dark red overtop a deep blue tunic of the finest wool. His hands were adorned with a number of rings and a large ruby hung from a gold chain about his neck. He touched the gem as he spoke and the candlelight caught and reflected its deep fire. He looked every inch a handsome and benevolent king.

“Today I ordered, in your name, sire, that one of the menservants at the townhouse be incarcerated to await further questioning,” Bascot said. “He has admitted to thievery from his former master, and there is a possibility that if your laundress discovered his crime, he may have killed her to prevent her reporting it to you.”

John leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, Molly was most protective of my interests and would have wasted no time in telling me if she suspected one of the other servants was a thief. The bastard! He will suffer for her death, of that you can be certain.”

The Templar hastened to prevent John taking such a precipitate action. “There is no proof of his guilt as yet, sire. He had the opportunity, it is true, when he was alone with her after he and another servant brought up the water for your bath, and there is a possible motive, but what puzzles me is, if he killed her, why did he not leave the townhouse immediately after he had done so? He must have known he would be under suspicion as the last person in her company, yet he did not try to escape before her body was found. Also, I have my doubts that he is responsible for the death of your steward. The manner of it suggests a person with a knowledge of poisons and the patience to wait for it to work. He has neither.”

“So, if he is innocent of both crimes, we are no farther forward,” John said shortly.

“Not yet, I am afraid,” the Templar admitted, “but I was given some information today that, if confirmed, may bring us closer to a resolution, or at least narrow the field of suspects.”

John, his senses alerted, said warily, “And what is the nature of this information, de Marins?”

As Bascot gave the details of his interrogation of Aquarius and then said that, in his opinion, there was the possibility that the murders had been perpetrated to prevent the discovery of an agent sent by Hugh de Lusignan. The king was quick to agree.

“Molly was with me on many occasions while I was in the south of France, and often heard
langue d’oc
spoken,” he said. “And she was very observant. If someone who claimed to come from another part of the country had answered her with
oc
instead of
oïl
, she would have been quick to take note of it. If nothing else, it would have made her curious, and was the sort of thing that she would have mentioned to me, knowing, as she did, that I have many enemies in that land. And if this person is an agent of Lusignan and became aware of her interest, she could have been killed to prevent her doing so. And if, as Aquarius claims, she told the steward of it, it could also have been the reason for his death.”

Bascot was quick to note the eagerness with which John received the premise that Lusignan was at the root of the crimes and that a look of relief, similar to Nicolaa’s when he had expounded the same theory to her, crossed the face of the archbishop. What was it, he wondered, that the three of them were hiding?

“In view of this development, sire, it is fortunate that the queen and her attendants are nearby,” Bascot said, “for they may be able to help us identify the person about whom your washerwoman was speaking. And even if they cannot,” he added, “it might be profitable to ask them if they saw or heard anything untoward on the night your laundress was killed. Since they returned to Dover immediately after her body was discovered, there has been no opportunity to interview them. It may be that one of the queen’s companions, or even the queen herself, has, albeit unwittingly, observed or heard something that might prove helpful.”

John took a moment to consider the request, his glance darting from the Templar to Nicolaa and back again as he did so. Bascot had the feeling he was appraising both of them in some way, and a glance at the castellan’s rigid countenance confirmed his assumption.

Seemingly satisfied with their demeanour, John answered in an affable tone. “A wise suggestion, de Marins,” he agreed. “And one that should be acted upon at once. We shall go to St. Sepulchre’s early tomorrow morning; I will meet you at Ridingate an hour after Terce and accompany you to the nunnery.”

As Bascot gave his agreement to the arrangement, the king turned to Nicolaa. “I think my wife would welcome a visit from you, lady. Can you be persuaded to come with us?”

That John had issued an invitation for Nicolaa’s presence rather than commanded it was an indication that the king was making every effort to be conciliatory, Bascot thought, but as she politely murmured her assent, he observed that her seemingly dutiful compliance was deceptive. The Templar, sitting on the side of Nicolaa that was not facing the king, saw the fingers of her left hand, which was lying in her lap, clench inward until the knuckles were white. It had cost her dear to be so submissive. John, however, was gratified by her response and spoke again to Bascot.

“How much credence do you put in Aquarius’ tale?” he asked

“None, sire, until—or unless—I can find a witness that will confirm what he claims,” the Templar replied. “He could be telling the truth, or merely employing a ruse to detract us from his own involvement.”

John mused for a moment. “If the murderer is an agent in the employ of Lusignan then it is reasonable to suppose he is not English. And since most of the servants I brought with me from Normandy were on the other vessel that was forced to land at Portsmouth, there is only Aquarius and, I believe, a couple of grooms that were in Canterbury at the time the murders were committed. I shall have Criel incarcerate the three of them until it is determined whether or not they can be deemed suspect.”

John’s words had an ominous ring, but despite his unease, Bascot did not have any way of forestalling the king from imprisoning men that might be innocent, and so he made no comment. A few moments later, John dismissed them and the Templar and Nicolaa left the guesthouse.

The castellan was silent throughout nearly all the journey back to Watling Street and it was not until they had almost arrived at their destination that she suddenly turned to Bascot and said, “I have decided that Miles and Gilles, along with the men-at-arms in my retinue, will accompany us on our journey to the nunnery tomorrow.”

Her declaration took the Templar by surprise. It was only a short distance to St. Sepulchre’s, and he had no doubt that John would bring an armed escort with him.

“Are you expecting some trouble en route, lady, that you feel a need to bring your own guard?” he asked.

“Recent events have taught me a valuable lesson about the vagaries of fidelity, de Marins,” Nicolaa replied tersely, “and I intend to take heed of it. Until I am safe back in Lincoln, I shall keep my own retainers about me at all times.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

The next morning was gloomy and overcast, heralding another fall of snow. In the castle holding cell, the feeble rays of light creeping through the small metal grille in the door were welcoming to Guillaume Aquarius, dim though they were. He and the two grooms, Andri and Denis, had been arrested the evening before, when two of the castle men-at-arms had come to the royal townhouse and escorted them to the bail. Once there, they had been locked in a cell and left to spend the night on rough straw pallets without light, food or drink to fortify them.

His two companions were sitting on the floor on the other side of the cell and, when they thought he was not observing them, kept glancing at him surreptitiously. He had been unable to sleep and neither, he thought, had they, for he had heard them whispering to one another throughout the long night. Neither of them had spoken to Aquarius since they had been arrested. He could feel distrust emanating from them, and their suspicion that it was he who was responsible for their incarceration.

And, he reflected, their distrust was to some extent justified. When the guards had come for them the night before, Aquarius had asked the reason for their arrest. The only reply had been a gruff, “It’s the king’s orders,” with no other explanation offered. After his interview with the Templar, and being told that a witness had seen him involved in an argument with Inglis, he had expected that he might be taken into custody at any time, but the seizure of the two grooms had come as a surprise until he remembered that they, along with him, were the only Norman servants in the royal townhouse. Regretfully, he cursed himself for telling the Templar that he had overheard Molly expressing her concern to Inglis that one of the servants in the household had said
oc
instead of o
ïl
. That had been a mistake, and all he had accomplished was to direct suspicion towards himself and the two grooms, the only non-English servants in the royal townhouse, and so the only ones who might possibly be expected to use the term. But his words could not be undone, no matter how much he wanted it so, and he would have to accept that he was the one who was responsible for the result. He had always prided himself that although he was not possessed of great physical strength, he had been blessed with intelligence. But now, he realised, he was not as clever as he believed.

As the light of day ventured farther into the room, it illuminated the reaches of their prison. The cell was stark—bare stone walls, a dirt floor and a sour-smelling slop bucket in one corner. Ringed metal bolts from which depended lengths of chain fitted with manacles projected at intervals along the wall and he felt a thrill of despair. He was not a brave man and knew he would never be able to withstand torture. The two grooms were both robust men, with muscles swelling at their shoulders and hands calloused by the rough work of caring for the king’s horses. But their brawny strength would not make them impervious to pain and so it was entirely conceivable that, if they were put to the test, either or both of them would, out of desperation, point the finger of accusation at him. He had envisioned such a glorious future from this trip to England—advancement, monetary reward and esteem. Had he ruined it all through his own stupidity? He looked up at the ceiling, which loomed about eight feet above him. It was covered in grime, and spiders had spun their webs in each of the corners. In the center, affixed to a thick wooden beam, was another large ring bolt. Aquarius shuddered. It was just the right height to affix a man by the wrists and let him dangle helplessly while he was subjected to all manner of hideous and painful torture.

At that moment, the door opened and one of the castle men-at-arms came in carrying a jug of thin ale and a sack of stale bread. These he placed on the floor and then, without a word, went out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

The two grooms fell on the food—none of them had eaten or drunk since the afternoon before—but, belatedly remembering Aquarius’ higher station, they sat back on their haunches and, with a surly expression, waited for him to take his portion of ale and bread. Leaning forward and taking just a sip of the ale to moisten his mouth and a small crust from one of the loaves, he gestured for them to eat what remained. His stomach was churning too violently to be receptive to food and, as his two companions wolfed down the fare, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, whispering a fervent prayer of earnest supplication for God’s mercy.

***

At precisely one hour after Terce, Bascot and Nicolaa, and her escort, were waiting for the king at Ridingate, the exit that led out from Canterbury onto the Dover Road. St. Sepulchre’s was but a short distance—barely half of a mile—from the city gate.

The king arrived flanked by guards from the archbishop’s retinue, experienced soldiers that undertook the task of escorting Hubert Walter on his peregrinations to London and other places in the kingdom. John looked askance at Nicolaa’s escort, but made no comment beyond giving her a searching look, merely spurring his horse to the head of the column and leading the party the short distance to the nunnery, the archbishop’s guard riding foursquare around him. Nicolaa and Bascot followed, with Gianni riding between Miles and Gilles at the rear, the men-at-arms behind them.

Gianni was overjoyed to be included in the group; last night Nicolaa had called him to her and said that he was to accompany them the next day as her
secretarius
, and even though she had not given any explanation for his sudden re-inclusion in the murder investigation, he had hardly been able to contain his excitement. Once more he was at the Templar’s side, even if only metaphorically, and that pleased him immensely.

When they arrived at St. Sepulchre’s, the mercenary soldiers of Godeschal de Socienne’s troop that had been left to guard the queen were ranged around the priory walls, all well wrapped in warm cloaks and vigilantly pacing a circuit of the walls. At John’s approach, one of them rang the bell over the gateway to summon the elderly nun who acted as porteress, and after she had peered through the small grille in the door and recognised the king, she opened the gate and John rode through, followed by Nicolaa, Bascot and Gianni. The king had raised his eyebrow quizzically at the castellan when she had told the lad to accompany them, but she had quietly explained that she had thought it would be worthwhile to have a record of the interview. She had instructed the lad to make his commission of the task unobtrusive lest is disturb the queen. John, shrugging his shoulders, had made no further objection. For this Nicolaa was thankful. She wanted this murder solved, and quickly, so that she could be free of the restraint John had imposed upon her, and she hoped that a written transcript of the forthcoming interview would be helpful in speeding matters towards that end. The men of the archbishop’s guard, along with Nicolaa’s escort, stayed outside the walls with the mercenary soldiers.

Once inside the enclave, the porteress politely asked the king to wait while she summoned the nun in charge of the guesthouse. A little impatiently, John agreed, and she hurried off in the direction of a long single-storied building set in the northeast corner of the enclave, which the king said was the guesthouse where the queen was staying. As the horses began to stamp restlessly while they waited, steam rising from their flanks in the cold air, Gianni took the opportunity to look about him. He had been inside the Templar preceptory in Lincoln, but had never, of course, visited a nunnery, and was curious about the places where pious women lived.

St. Sepulchre’s was not an extensive establishment and the guesthouse was the largest building there. To the northwest was a small church with a two-storied extension attached to it which, presumably, contained the refectory and dorter where the nuns ate and slept. There was a small building with a chimney which Gianni surmised was the kitchen. The stables were located at the western wall; outside the large double door was a pile of manure and a young novice scattering sand on the icy ground. There was also a barn that would be used for storing grain and root vegetables, and just behind it on the other side of the wall the top branches of fruit trees could be seen, the limbs bare and snow-laden, indicating the presence of an orchard. There was also, no doubt, a herb garden and vegetable plot somewhere out of sight. Apart from the novice in front of the stable, no other sisters were to be seen, but it was likely that in this snowy weather, they all stayed inside as much as their duties allowed. It seemed to be an orderly and well-maintained enclave and, Gianni thought, must be a pleasant abode for the nuns who lived there.

The porteress was gone some time, and just as it seemed that the king’s patience would snap, the door into the guesthouse opened and she emerged, followed by a much taller nun with an erect posture and serene unlined face. The latter wore no cloak, but did not seem distressed by the cold as she walked slowly up to the king, her hands hidden in the folds of her sleeves, and bid him welcome.

“Queen Isabella will be pleased to see you, sire,” she said in measured tones that bore a slight trace of a Scottish accent. “She has confided in me that she finds the solitude here tedious and that your visit is exceedingly welcome. If you will follow me, I will take you to her and have wine brought for your refreshment.”