The Canterbury Murders (2 page)

Chapter One

Canterbury, England

Early December 1203

Molly looked around the antechamber to ensure that all was in order for the king’s bath. The shutters were closed, the candles had been lit and the padded tub filled almost to the brim with heated water. She had only to add a few drops of oil of bergamot—King John’s favourite fragrance—to the slightly steaming liquid and all would be ready. She hummed tunelessly to herself as she made the final preparations, a plain, plump woman with brawny forearms, happy to be back in England and, more especially, in Canterbury, the town where she had been born. She shuddered a little as she recalled her recent journey with the king and queen across the Narrow Sea. Shortly after the ship had left Barfleur a winter storm had arisen, with heavy rain and a wind so strong it had whipped the waves into a frenzy. More than once she had thought the boat was going to sink, and it had only been by God’s grace that they had made safe harbour at Dover. Although she had made the trip many times during her long service to the king, this was the first time she had been frightened almost beyond bearing. But she had been proud of John. Even though the vessel had tossed and lunged like a fractious horse, he had remained calm, standing in the driving rain beside the seaman that operated the huge steering rudder and offering words of encouragement. He had set an example for the crew and passengers to follow.

And Molly was also relieved to have left Normandy. The last few months there had been alarming, what with the king’s nephew, Arthur, disappearing while in John’s custody and the relentless attacks on English lands by the French. But Molly had no doubt of John’s integrity or his courage. She had been his trusted servant since the days of her youth and, despite the scurrilous rumours perpetrated by his enemies that he was a failure as a monarch, she was certain he would prevail, no matter what obstacles were laid in his path.

Picking up the vial of bergamot, she carefully removed the stopper and took a moment to inhale the sharp citrus aroma, pushing back the coarse linen of her head rail with the back of her hand as she did so. In all the years that she had been John’s washerwoman, she had, at his request, used the same fragrance, even sprinkling a little of it on the smallclothes she washed for him before smoothing them dry with her little pot of heated stones. She hoped that the king would adhere to his usual habit of exchanging a few words with her before his bath attendant arrived to disrobe him. How she treasured those moments when he spoke to her like an old friend and she told him any little tidbits of gossip she had heard. He was always interested in what she had to say and had once remarked to his young wife, in Molly’s hearing, that of all the females in his service, he treasured his washerwoman the most. And tonight, for the first time in a long while, she had something to tell him, something that she was certain was of importance, although in what way she was not sure. She hoped he would soon come out of the bedchamber where he was sharing a cup of wine with the queen while his bath was being prepared.

As she tipped a few drops of the perfumed oil into the water, she heard the door behind her open and cursed silently in frustration. It must be Guillaume Aquarius, John’s bath attendant, come to see if the bath was ready. Chagrined that he had not waited for her to call him, and had so prevented her from having the opportunity of private conversation with the king, Molly decided to ignore him and did not turn around.

It took a great effort on her part to prevent herself from voicing her irritation. Guillaume was new to his post, a clerk who had worked under the keeper of the wardrobe in Rouen. He had been included in the small company the king had brought with him to England, a conscientious young man whom John had chosen to be his personal attendant during the journey, primarily because he was familiar with the king’s clothing and had a diffident manner. She supposed it was not surprising Guillaume was eager to attend to his duties—especially since the king changed his bath attendant almost as frequently as he bathed, which was at least once a month—for, if he should please John, the post held opportunities for promotion. She had lost track of how many attendants had held the office during her years of service. John, often unable to remember the name of each new one, called all of them Aquarius, after some stars in the heavens that formed the shape of a water carrier, he said, and now memory of their individual faces had blurred in Molly’s mind with the passage of time. She felt a great degree of gratification that never once, in all of her time with the king, had John suggested she be replaced. She had followed in his train since he had been a young man, through good times and bad, and was certain she would continue to do so until her robust strength faded.

Replacing the stopper in the vial of oil, she swished her hands through the water to spread the perfume and then reached into the pocket of her gown for a ball of the special soap John had imported from Spain. It was made from olive oil and lime juice and smelt delicious. Just as she was about to place it on the board that spanned the tub, alongside a square of white linen and a small pair of scissors, she heard footsteps close behind her.

“I am not quite finished, Guillaume,” she said crossly. “You should have waited until I called you—”

Her words were choked off as she felt a great weight descend on her back and she was thrust violently forward, headfirst into the tub. Water flooded into her mouth and nostrils and, spluttering to clear her airways, she fought as hard as she could to push herself up. But her efforts were in vain, futile against the strong hand that was gripping her shoulder. Suddenly she felt a sharp stinging sensation as a knife slashed across her throat. The pain shocked her into immobility and, after a moment or two of light-headedness in which she saw flashing streaks of bright colour dancing against her vision, blackness engulfed her, and her breath, and her life, departed forevermore. As the murderer made a hasty exit from the room, Molly’s inert body remained hanging over the edge of the tub, blood from her severed neck drifting lazily into the fragrant bathwater, spreading roseate tentacles of gore.

Chapter Two

In the early afternoon of the next day, a company of horsemen escorting Nicolaa de la Haye, hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, was approaching Canterbury. A diminutive, slightly plump woman of middle age, Nicolaa sat erect on her palfrey, comfortably wrapped in a warm cloak lined with rabbit fur and gazing appreciatively at the view before her. The morning had been frosty, but the sun was now shining brilliantly and sparkled on the roofs of the buildings inside the city walls. Most prominent was the cathedral, towering protectively over all, but the more modest confines of the abbey of St. Augustine could be seen just outside the walls to the southwest. It was a welcome sight, and she was glad to finally reach her destination.

She and her escort had been travelling for four days since they left Lincoln, stopping for the nights at guesthouses in abbeys and priories along the way. Had it been summertime, she would have enjoyed the trip along Ermine Street—the great thoroughfare built by the Romans that led down from the north to London—and reveled in the greenness of the countryside through which they passed but, at this time of the year, all had been bleak and grey. The muddy condition of the roads had made their passage very slow in some stretches, especially after they had left London yesterday, for the highway to Canterbury was much travelled and had been full of water-filled holes. Added to this difficulty had been the danger of attack by outlaws made desperate by winter starvation, and she knew that the men of her escort—comprising two household knights, Gilles de Laubrec and Miles de Laxton, and half-a-dozen men-at-arms—would be relieved to deliver her safely inside the stout walls of the town.

The approach to Westgate, the northwest entrance into Canterbury, was thronged with foot traffic and the wains of merchants. As Gilles pushed the bulk of his horse through the congestion to clear a passage, she wondered what awaited her now she had come to the journey’s end. It had been the king who had summoned her here at this dreary time of the year, in a letter sent from Normandy a couple of weeks before, saying that he expected to be in Canterbury in early December and required her to meet with him so they could discuss what he called “a private matter of some urgency,” and nothing more. The missive had been enclosed with another addressed to her husband, Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln. Gerard’s letter had been far more formal, a command to attend a Great Council in Oxford in the new year, a gathering of the nobles of the kingdom to discuss the distressing situation in Normandy, where Philip of France was attacking, and seizing, English castles.

Not for the first time since she received the summons, she tried to fathom what the “private matter” could be. Both she and Gerard had heard the rumours that abounded in regard to John’s reckless behaviour over the last few months, most of them centering on the fact that he had allowed King Philip to invade his lands without taking any defensive action. This, it was said, was the reason why many of his Norman nobles had withdrawn their support. Whether true or not, there was no doubt about the purpose of the forthcoming convocation in Oxford. John intended to ask his English vassals for their assistance in regaining control of Normandy, which meant they would be required to provide men to swell the army he would need, or money to pay for mercenaries, or both.

But this did not explain the reason for her own summons. As her husband, it was Gerard who had control over the revenue from their considerable joint estates and he who would say yea or nay to the king’s demand. She hoped John did not wish to enlist her aid in convincing Gerard to support his cause. He and John had been close allies once, during Richard’s reign, but now, and mainly due to the king’s inconstancy, they were estranged. If John expected her to act as intermediary in repairing their relationship, she would have to tell him there was little chance of success. Gerard, when he had received the summons to attend the convocation, had been so incensed that he had scrunched the parchment on which it was written into a ball and thrown it across the room. After it had fallen to the floor and lay amongst the rushes, he had stamped the heel of his boot on the royal waxen seal attached to the bottom, smashing it to pieces.

Gerard’s temper had not improved when she had told him the contents of her own letter. “Be careful what you promise, wife,” he had growled angrily. “John’s word, like that of his dead brothers, cannot be relied upon. They all betrayed their own father and he will think little of doing to the same to you.”

What he said was true, even if his opinion was biased by the great regard in which he held the princes’ sire, King Henry. All of the late king’s sons, including John, had played their father false, sometimes in concert with the king who had been Henry’s enemy and had now, ironically, become John’s—Philip of France. She was aware that the king held her own person in special esteem because of the steadfast loyalty she, and her forbears, had always shown to the reigning monarch, but these latest rumours of his dilatory behaviour had jarred her to the core. She had always considered him a man much maligned and had come to his defence on many occasions, not only with her husband but also with various other nobles in the realm. But even though she valued John’s attributes—he was an able administrator and as competent a soldier, when he chose, as his much-lauded dead brother, Richard the Lionheart—she could not deny that his nature was changeable. She fervently hoped the adverse reports circulating about him were untrue or, at the very least, grossly exaggerated.

But further speculation on the reason for her presence here—and she had pondered much on it since receiving John’s letter—would, she knew, bring her no closer to the answer. She would have to set the matter aside until she met him in person. Looking around her as they approached Westgate, the portal into the town, her glance fell on the two servants she had brought with her from Lincoln—young Gianni, a mute clerk from the scriptorium that would serve as her secretary, and Clare, one of the castle sempstresses that she had chosen to act as her tiring woman while she was away from home. Both seemed unaffected by the rigours of travel and she envied them the hardiness of their youth. It had been many years since she had made such a long journey and her bones felt as though they had been shaken asunder. She would be glad to get inside the city walls.

When the gateward saw the Haye emblem of a twelve-pointed red star emblazoned on the tunics of her escort, he waved the party through the huge arch, giving a respectful salute to Nicolaa as she rode past. Once inside the city walls, they made their way along St. Peter’s Street and then down Castle Street to the fortress that guarded the town. John’s letter had included the information that accommodation would be provided for her and her retinue at a house within the town, but she was not sure of its location or, indeed, if the king had arrived as planned. Nicholas de Criel, constable of the castle, should be able to inform her about both matters.

Chapter Three

The fortress at Canterbury was not as large as the one Nicolaa and her husband held for the king at Lincoln, but it was still impressive. In the bail stood a keep approximately eighty-five feet square and three stories high, a barracks for the garrison, an exercise ground, a smithy and an armoury, the whole protected by an encircling curtain wall with a squat tower at each corner. When Nicolaa and her entourage approached the gate, she was surprised to see two men-at-arms stationed outside, and archers atop the towers that flanked the entrance. This was more men than was necessary in peacetime but could be due, perhaps, to the expected arrival of the king or, if he was already in Canterbury, his presence in the keep.

When she rode into the bail, a groom ran to take the reins of her horse, and she noticed three men standing a little way apart, conversing together in the middle of the practice ground. One of them she recognised as William Marshal, the earl of Pembroke, who, John had said in his letter, would be accompanying him on his journey to England—so it seemed safe to assume that the king had arrived as planned. The short, stalwart figure of one of the other men was Nicholas de Criel, the constable, but the last of the three was a stranger to her. He was wearing a thick cloak over a rough battle-scarred tunic and, since neither garment bore any trace of a lord’s insignia, appeared to be a mercenary soldier.

Marshal and Nicolaa were old acquaintances, having met on many occasions over the preceding years, and when he looked up and saw her, he quickly came forward to give her greeting. As he strode across the bail, she noticed he was not much changed since the last time they had met, some five years before. A tall and well-muscled knight in his late fifties, with broad shoulders and a mane of dark brown hair and moustache now liberally sprinkled with grey, he was famed for his youthful exploits as a paladin. His craggy face split into a grin as he came up to her.

“You are well come, lady, and I am very pleased to meet you once again. Come, let us go inside out of this cold weather so you can drink a measure of wine to take the chill from your bones.”

Helping her down from her palfrey, Marshal escorted Nicolaa up the steps to the keep and into the hall, a large wooden-raftered chamber at the far end of which sat a massive oaken table on a dais. Leading her to a seat at the table, the earl sent a manservant scurrying for refreshment, while Gilles de Laubrec and Miles de Laxton, following behind them, directed the men-at-arms to help themselves from the ale barrels situated at the back of the room, and then accompanied Clare and Gianni to seats at a table near a capacious fireplace filled with blazing logs.

The hall had a Spartan atmosphere, bare of any ornamentation, and a staff consisting entirely of menservants. Rushes covered the floor and a couple of large mastiffs sat by the door with ears pricked and watchful eyes. Nicolaa noticed that there were extra men-at-arms on duty here in the hall, one standing at the entrance to each of the corner towers, and two more at the door.

“I presume, since you are here, that the king landed safely,” she remarked to the earl, “but it would seem that the garrison has been placed on alert. Did you have some trouble from the French during the crossing?”

“No, we made a safe passage from Rouen to Barfleur with no sight of them at all, and our departure from the port went as planned,” he replied. “The weather was a little rough; a winter storm arose that drove one of the two ships in our company off course in the direction of Plymouth, but our vessel and the other one made a safe landfall at Dover.” He paused for a moment before adding, “It was only after the king arrived in Canterbury that an incident occurred to give cause for alarm.”

Nicolaa waited for him to explain. “I do not have all of the details of the happening,” he continued, “for I am staying at the guesthouse in the cathedral priory and did not learn of it until I arrived here this morning, but was told that one of John’s servants, a washerwoman, was murdered last night, and in a room adjacent to the chamber that John and Isabella were occupying.”

“Sweet Jesu,” Nicolaa exclaimed. “Did this happen here in the castle?”

“No, the king and queen took up residence in the royal townhouse on Stour Street when we arrived two days ago,” Marshal said. “It was there that the woman was killed.”

Nicolaa knew of the building of which the earl spoke from a time, many years before, when she had come to Canterbury in the company of her father and they had visited the townhouse when it had been occupied by John’s late father, King Henry II. It was a large three-storied building situated on the banks of the Stour, the river which spanned the western side of the city.

“It was a brutal killing,” Marshal said grimly. “The woman’s throat was cut, and so severely that it nearly decapitated her. She was, apparently, in the midst of preparing the king’s bath when the attack took place.”

“And was the murderer apprehended?”

“Unfortunately not,” the earl replied. “There have been guards on watch at the townhouse since John and Isabella arrived—men from the mercenary contingent that accompanied us from Normandy—and they are most insistent that it was not possible for an intruder to have slipped past them. This would imply that the culprit must be someone in the household but, of course, if any of the guards were slacking while on duty, they are not going to admit it, especially as their captain had already felt the full brunt of the king’s wrath for failing to keep a secure watch. So the possibility of an intruder remains.”

“Is there any indication of the motive for the crime?” Nicolaa asked.

“The king believes that the washerwoman forestalled an attack on himself and the queen. Fearful for Isabella, he has taken her, and her two attendants, back to Dover, and will leave them there until he feels it is safe for her to return. He told me to expect him back in Canterbury sometime this afternoon.”

Nicolaa digested the information and then said, “Do you believe John’s premise is valid, William? That the poor woman thwarted an attempt on their lives?”

Marshal shrugged. “It could be so, I suppose. Many of the king’s nobles are disgruntled with him for the loss of the fiefs they hold in Normandy from King Philip, but I can think of none that are so angry they would stoop to murdering him, or Isabella, especially in such a covert fashion.”

“The rumours of John’s laxity are true then?” Nicolaa asked.

Marshal shook his head decisively. “That is a falsehood, a malicious rumour spread by those who wish to justify their betrayal of the king. John has done all that could be expected of him, and more, to keep Normandy secure, but he has been hampered by the disaffection of his vassals and the severely depleted treasury he inherited from his brother. Richard bled his subjects’ purses dry to support his crusade, and then further monies were needed for his ransom after he was captured by Leopold of Austria. Not only does the financial situation leave John hard-pressed to pay for the armaments and supplies he needs to defend his lands, but due to the lack of support from those who should ply their swords on his behalf, he has been forced to hire mercenaries for his personal guard. It is an additional expense he can ill afford.”

The earl shook his head in disgust. “There are a few barons that have remained loyal but, despite their efforts, many towns have been taken. Conches is lost, and Vaudreuil, and now the French are attacking Château-Gaillard. De Lacy, a stalwart knight, is constable there and trying to hold firm, but the castle is under siege, and it is likely he will eventually be forced to surrender.”

Château-Gaillard—the “Saucy Castle”—had been built by John’s older brother, Richard. It was only sixty miles from Paris, a fortress intended not only to protect the Duchy of Normandy but also to be a base from which a campaign could be launched to take back the Vexin, a strategic area that was always in dispute between France and England. The late king had been a master of siege warfare and had directed the castle to be erected upon a towering limestone crag—the Rock of Andeli—and the stronghold, with its elliptical inner citadel and curvilinear enclosing wall, was considered impregnable. But there was always the chance that, without outside assistance, de Lacy and his men would be starved into submission. If Château-Gaillard was taken by the French, it would be a blow of major proportions.

The earl’s glum expression reflected the seriousness of the situation. “I am afraid that Normandy is as good as lost, as are Maine, Anjou and Touraine, but when I ventured to suggest to John that he should try to make peace with Philip, he took umbrage and asked me if I, too, intended to betray him. Although I assured him I did not, and would never do so, the relationship between us is strained.”

This was indeed dire news and Nicolaa was hard-pressed to understand the king’s attitude towards Marshal, who had proved his loyalty time and again, and had supported John’s claim to the English throne after Richard died. She said as much to the earl, but he shook his head in dismissal. “The king has changed in the last months, lady. Due to the faithlessness of many who swore him fealty, it is understandable that he is full of mistrust, even when there is no foundation for it, but ever since he removed his nephew Arthur from Falaise to a prison cell at Rouen, his attitude has worsened.”

Nicolaa recalled the rumours that had been circulating about John’s nephew. “I have heard that Arthur has not been seen since Eastertide and, because of the terrible threat John made—that he intended to blind and castrate the boy—it is said he has been murdered by the king. The Bretons are a volatile people and fiercely loyal to their count. If John’s assumption about the servant’s murder is correct, and it took place because she inadvertently foiled an attack on himself, it could be that one of Arthur’s supporters has followed the king to Canterbury intent on taking revenge.”

Marshal shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose. But I have asked John about Arthur and he assures me the boy is alive and still in confinement. Whatever the truth of the matter, Arthur lost any sympathy I may have had for him when he attempted to take his own grandmother hostage at Mirabeau. Eleanor is a great lady, respected by the entire world; for Arthur to treat her in such a fashion was an outrage that offended all Christendom. But if the king decided to inflict the ultimate penalty on his nephew, it should have been done openly, not in secret.”

Marshal leaned back in his chair and expelled his breath in exasperation. “If we look for the murderer amongst those whom the king calls enemy, they are legion. Apart from the Bretons, it may be that Philip of France is behind this. It would suit him well if John was dead and the final obstacle to his capture of Normandy removed. Or,” he added, “the motive could be rooted in John’s marriage to Isabella. Hugh of Lusignan was with Arthur at Mirabeau and, like him, taken captive, along with a substantial number of knights who are his liegemen; and recently John, against my advice, released him and so he is at large to wreak further havoc. Lusignan still burns with resentment against John, so it could be that an agent of his is responsible for the woman’s death.”

Nicolaa thought this last unlikely but, as Marshal said, it was still a possibility. Hugh of Lusignan had been betrothed to Isabella before John made his bid for her hand three years before. The queen’s father, the recently deceased Aymer Taillefer, count of Angoulême, had quickly renounced Lusignan’s suit in favour of John’s, preferring that his only child and heir become a queen rather than the wife of a mere count. Lusignan had, naturally, been incensed at this reversal of his suit and, smarting from the loss of such a wealthy bride, had allied himself with his overlord, Philip of France, in the attack on John’s continental possessions. He was a dangerous and vindictive man, and would not scruple to kill John if the means could be found.

“Mayhap the washerwoman was murdered for a reason of her own making,” Nicolaa suggested, “and her death is not connected to any political intrigue.”

“I sincerely hope that is so, lady,” Marshal replied with heartfelt emotion, “and shall pray that heaven grants us such a boon.”

At that moment, the soldier she had seen in the conversation with Marshal in the bail when she arrived came into the hall and walked towards the dais. As he did so, Nicolaa nodded in his direction. “Is he one of the routiers John brought with him from Normandy?”

“Yes,” Marshal replied. “His name is Almaric Chacal, a Brabançon from Flanders. He and his small band of men were the ones on duty at the townhouse when the murder took place, and are part of a larger troupe of mercenaries that the king hired to escort him to England, under the command of Godeschal de Socienne.” The earl gave a grim chuckle. “I should imagine Chacal’s ears are still burning from the upbraiding John gave him for failing to keep the premises secure. And it is likely, once Godeschal is told what has happened, that he, too, will add his own fulsome reprimand to the king’s.”

Nicolaa had heard of Godeschal de Socienne and the fearsome reputation he and his brother had earned as warriors. With the allegiance of his nobles wavering, it was understandable that John would put his trust in mercenaries, even if it was a fidelity that was bought and not earned. By and large, mercenaries were a hard-bitten and arrogant breed, especially those from Flanders—and as Chacal approached, she decided that he fit the image. Despite the rebuke he had recently received from John, he walked with a slight swagger and there was little deference in his voice as he said to Marshal, “You wished to be advised when the king returned, lord. The gateward on the tower reports that his party is approaching.”

With a brief nod to the mercenary, Marshal rose from his seat and turned to Nicolaa. “Will you accompany me into the bail, lady, to greet John?”

With a nod of assent, Nicolaa rose from her seat and left the hall with the earl, signing to the two knights of her escort, and Gianni and Clare, to stay where they were until she returned.