“W
ELL,
A
LYS, ARE YOU GOING TO TELL ME WHAT
H
UBERT
said or not?” Alinor demanded. She stood over her companion, face set in determination, hands clenched into fists and set on her hips.
The other girl looked up at her, soft blue eyes awash with tears. “Yes, I will. But you must promise me that you will not tell Alain, or your father.”
It was the next morning. Outside the weather was gloomy from a light rain that had fallen overnight and the temperature had dropped. The two young women were in a small chamber at the top of the new keep, both wearing gowns of heavy wool as protection against the chill. For the moment, they were the only two occupants of the room, but soon, with the arrival of more guests for the king’s visit, others would invade their privacy. The floor was spread with pallets and covers in anticipation.
Alinor was daughter to Richard de Humez, who was married to Petronille, one of Nicolaa de la Haye’s two younger sisters. Although both her parents were dark haired, Alinor had inherited the Haye glints of copper in her tawny-coloured locks, which now streamed down her back in two long plaits. She was a forceful girl, fifteen years of age, gently rounded and passingly pretty, but with an intractability that she had inherited from her Haye forbears.
The girl she was berating was Alys de Carston, sister to Alain. Alys had lived in the de Humez household for the past three years, since she had been betrothed to Alinor’s younger brother, Baldwin, a boy who was four years her junior. As the two girls were of an age they had been thrown much into each other’s company and had become fast friends. Alys resembled her brother only in her upright posture. She was a gentle girl, with long fair hair that stubbornly curled in tendrils around a heart-shaped face, and with an air of innocence about her that was genuine.
Now she mopped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and said, “It was the time Sir William came to your father’s manor house, in the summer, and brought Hubert with him.”
“I remember,” said Alinor. “When we had that new minstrel from Anjou.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Alys confirmed. “I was in the chapel—Baldwin had just had a bad attack of his illness and I had gone there to offer up a prayer for him—and Hubert came up behind me. I was all alone, and…” She began to sob softly again, but Alinor interrupted her, impatient.
“Get on with it, Alys. What did he say?”
“He…he put his hand on my breast and said that he wanted to bed me.” Now Alys looked up at her companion and her words came in a rush. “I pushed him away, Nora, but he just laughed and said that if I did not he would tell everyone that I had anyway. I told him to go away and leave me alone, that no one would believe him. But…but he sneered at me, said whether they did or not it would still cast doubts on my chastity and your father would look for another bride for Baldwin. He left then, and said he would give me time to think about it, but if I did not, I would be sorry.”
“Why did you not tell me then, Alys? Or at least tell my mother? She is fond of you, and kind. She would have seen to it that Hubert did not trouble you again.” Alinor’s tone had softened at the real distress in her friend’s voice, and she sat down beside Alys and put an arm around her shoulders.
“I did not know what to do, and then Sir William left the next morning and Hubert was gone with him. I thought that perhaps he had taken too much wine and had been foolish only, did not mean what he had said. I tried to forget it. I did not want to think about it.” She raised her tear-stained face to her friend. “Can you understand, Alinor?”
The other girl nodded. “But you still should have told someone. Did he threaten you again when we came to Lincoln?”
“Yes. Almost as soon as we arrived. It was the day before he disappeared. Alain saw him talking to me. In the hall, by the entrance to the kitchen. He—Hubert—had taken hold of my wrist. He wouldn’t let go and then he saw Alain coming towards us.”
“And your brother, did he challenge Hubert?”
“He did not get the chance. Hubert released me and left, hurriedly. Alain asked me what cause Hubert had for being so familiar with me. I…lied. I told Alain that I had tripped and Hubert had merely been helping me to my feet.” She took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. “I don’t know if Alain believed me or not, but I saw him talking to Hubert later, in the bail. It looked as though they were arguing.” She buried her head in Alinor’s shoulder. “Oh, Nora, what if it was Alain who killed him? It would be my fault. All my fault.”
Alinor patted her friend’s shoulder. “No, Alys, not your fault, but Hubert’s own. You have done nothing for which to reproach yourself.”
Alys lifted her head, tears now flowing fast and free. “What shall I do, Nora? Shall I talk to Alain…ask him…?”
“You shall do nothing, little poppet,” Alinor said firmly. “You will leave Alain and this whole coil to me.”
I
N A CORNER OF THE BAIL A GROUP OF SQUIRES WERE AT
practice with the quintain, a swinging crossbar set with a circle of metal on one side and a heavy bag of sand on the other. The young men were taking turns riding at it, lances poised to strike the metal and, when their aim was successful, trying to avoid the buffet of the sandbag that swung towards their heads in response. A group of pages watched, cheering those who were successful and deriding those who tumbled to the ground.
From a vantage point set at a distance across the bail, by the door of the armoury, William Camville and Richard de Humez watched the young men. Across their line of vision the work of the castle staff went on, carts still arriving with stores of root vegetables, maids milking cows and goats, and the blacksmith busy at his forge.
“Your young men show well, William,” de Humez said. “Mine could learn a thing or two from Renault, or even Alain. Did you take a hand yourself in their training?”
William Camville shook his head. “No, one of my household knights is their mentor. I leave it to him.”
“He has done well in his instruction.”
The conversation petered out, then de Humez gave William a sidelong glance and said, “Has Gerard told you of his intentions in the matter of Hubert’s death?”
“Why not be explicit, de Humez?” William replied with a lazy smile. “You want to know if Gerard had a hand in the boy’s murder.”
De Humez bristled. He was a melancholic man, of middle years and smaller stature than his companion. The Camvilles always engendered a mood of discontent in him, their bold brash manner an affront to what he considered his dignity and, although he did not realise it, a tinge of jealousy for their confidence.
“If he had, I would not expect him to bruit it abroad,” de Humez replied sharply. “Although I would not be surprised if he had done the deed, or ordered it. Your brother is a rash and hasty man, as ill judgement in his past actions has shown.”
William threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I wager you would not accuse Gerard of that to his face.”
De Humez lost his self-righteous pose and became decidedly ill at ease, making no reply. William Camville’s face did not lose its expression of amusement. “Why are you so interested in the death of my squire, Richard? Is it due to his connection with de Vescy—or perhaps because it is rumoured that the boy claimed to have knowledge of secret loyalties to Arthur of Brittany? Are you frightened that if Gerard was in some way responsible that it might taint his reputation with the king—and therefore your own, by reason of you being wedded to his wife’s sister?”
“Of course not,” de Humez replied. “My own loyalty to John is without reproach. After all, my uncle…”
“Yes, Richard, your connection with the constable of Normandy is well known,” William interrupted in a tired voice. “But that was over twenty years ago and your uncle is long dead. And so is King Henry, who was his lord.”
The sheriff’s brother cast a speculative look at his companion, then added, “You, unlike Gerard, were solicitous of Richard, were you not, and stood against John when he and my brother defied Richard’s chancellor? Our present king has a long memory, de Humez. Did you think to cast your lot with Arthur, so you would have no cause to worry that John might remember matters best left forgotten? Were you one of those of whom Hubert spoke as being partisan to Richard’s nephew instead of his brother?”
De Humez turned white at the accusation levelled at him. Instinctively his hand dropped to the sword at his belt, then, recalling that the man at his side possessed a reputation for swordplay that was almost equal to that of his brother, de Humez changed his mind. Instead he gave William an angry glare and strode off across the bailey.
William Camville watched him go, thoughtful. What had started as an irresistible urge to bait the prig whom Gerard had the misfortune to call brother-by-marriage had turned to something more as he had spoken the words. There had been real fear in de Humez’s face when William had questioned his loyalty to King John. Had he inadvertently stumbled on a truth where he had thought only to provoke irritation? Slowly William ambled back towards the keep. He would have to think more on this matter, perhaps talk privately with Nicolaa. If there was any meat on the bones he had inadvertently stirred up, it would be best to chew it thoroughly before offering it to Gerard. And his brother’s wife was a good enough chatelaine to know how best to prepare the dish.
B
ASCOT STARTED EARLY FOR HIS MEETING WITH
T
OSTIG
. It had rained the night before, but the sun was now trying to penetrate the cloud cover and it promised to be a fair day for the lateness of the year. The ground smelled fresh and clean, heavy with the scent of moisture and vegetation. It was an odour that pleased Bascot, one he had often dreamed of during his imprisonment in the arid terrain of the Holy Land, permeating his dreams and waking him with a fitful start of pleasure in a remembrance of home before the reality of his surroundings impinged on his consciousness. Behind him Gianni rode pillion, swathed in a warm cloak and with the hat Ernulf had given him pulled firmly down over his head.
As they descended from the high knoll on which Lincoln was situated Bascot took in the surrounding countryside. It was sparsely wooded until they reached the edge of the chase, and the ground was marshy in places and crisscrossed with rivulets, firming up only when they reached the shelter of the forest.
Bascot found his way to the place that Tostig had taken him the previous afternoon with little difficulty and the forester was waiting, as arranged, at the spot where the body of the poached deer had been found. With him were two other men whom he introduced as the agister, Copley, and Eadric, the woodward who lived in the village on the southern boundary of Gerard Camville’s chase. Eadric worked with Tostig, and was paid his salary by the sheriff, but his chief responsibility lay to the crown. Since it was part of his duty to oversee any licences issued for industry within the forest, such as charcoal burning, Tostig had asked him to attend the meeting that morning, in case he should be able to help Bascot with his enquiries.
The agister, Copley, was a short stout man, with a florid face and breath reeking of the stale fumes of last night’s wine. He was dressed more richly than the other two, with a thick cloak wrapped over the good wool of his tunic and a flat cap decorated with silver thread set atop his sparse hair. His mood was disgruntled and he was obviously annoyed at being asked to rise so early in the morning, but showed his discontent only in his manner towards Tostig and Eadric. To Bascot he was carefully deferential, mindful perhaps of de Marins’s rank and the small Templar badge worn on the shoulder of his tunic.
Eadric, a young fresh-faced man of unmistakable Saxon heritage with pale hair and deep blue eyes, looked uncomfortable, and kept to the rear of the company as they travelled the short distance to the village. Bascot was aware of the complex hierarchy of forest officials, both royal and private, and of the jostling for power that occurred within its ranks. A chase—or forest, as it was often called—brought in a good amount of revenue to those who owned the rights, be they king or noble. Such areas were jealously guarded against offences by those who oversaw its management. It was likely the young woodward was fearful of reprisal from Copley if he was found to have been lax in his duties. Or, since its officials were notably disliked by the general populace for their arbitrary enforcement of the rights they protected, perhaps he was just reluctant to be included in the enquiry Bascot intended to make of the villagers.
The village was, as Tostig had said, a small one, with perhaps ten families within the fence of hurdles that bounded the compound. The reeve, headman for the village, had been apprised by the forester of Bascot’s intended visit and he, along with the village priest and two others, was waiting for the Templar just inside the gate. Nearby, clustered in a silent watching group, were the other men of the hamlet, while their womenfolk huddled in twos and threes at the entrances to the small thatched cots that straggled around the perimeter of the enclosed space. Children played at the edge of a shallow pond amongst a scattering of geese, chickens and ducks. At the far end of the dirt track that bisected the compound were some storage buildings constructed of rough-hewn timber. Beyond them, over the wall of hurdles, the village fields stretched to the north, empty of grain since harvest time.
The priest, an elderly man with a completely bald head and few teeth, stepped forward as Bascot and the forest officials came through the gate.
“Greetings, Sir Bascot. I am Samson, God’s shepherd to this small flock.” His lined, gentle face attempted a smile as he turned and gestured to the man beside him. “This is Alwin, the reeve, and these others”—the priest’s hand waved at the reeve’s companions—”are Leofric, Alwin’s son, and Edward, his nephew.”
The three villagers looked balefully at Bascot, their manner subservient but wary. Plainly they regarded the presence of Bascot and the forest officials as an intrusion and were resentful.
Copley spoke up, his tone impatient. “Sir Bascot is not interested in the names of the reeve or his kinfolk, priest. He just wants some truthful answers to his questions. Let us get on with it.”
The reeve gave Copley a sullen glare as he spoke and the priest, flustered by the sharpness in the agister’s voice, made haste to invite them into a small half-timbered edifice that served as a church. The reeve and his two kinsmen followed behind.
“I have no wine to offer, good sirs,” Samson said, “but there is ale, if you wish…?”
“Better than nothing. Bring us some,” Copley ordered before sitting down heavily on a stool placed just beside the door. The only other furniture in the one small room they had entered was a tiny altar at the far end and a wooden box used to house the priest’s vestments and vessels for the celebration of Mass. On the limewashed walls crude pictures of biblical scenes had been painted, mainly from stories the villagers would most easily understand, those of shepherds tending their flocks and Jesus feeding the multitude from a basket containing only five loaves and two fishes.
As the priest turned to hurry away for the ale, Bascot stopped him. “No, thank you, Father, we do not require any of your ale. Our visit is to be but a brief one. It will not require that you deplete your small store for our benefit.”
The Templar turned angrily to the agister, who was looking at him with stupefaction. “You will stay on your feet, Copley, out of respect for the good Father’s office and his age. If any here should be accorded the comfort of sitting, it is he, not you, who should receive it.”
Disregarding the look of outrage that settled on Copley’s face, Bascot spoke to the villagers, who were now regarding him with a little less hostility and barely concealed glee at the reprimand he had given the agister. Behind them Tostig was grinning, while Eadric ducked his head to hide a smile. Gianni, who had not come in after them, stood in the open doorway, fondling one of the village dogs. The animal had declawed toes, a hobbling demanded by law to prevent any dog not belonging to a lord or forest official from hunting animals that were the sole province of the king.
Bascot addressed the reeve. “Alwin, you will know that I am here to try and discover how the squire Hubert de Tournay came to be found murdered nearby in the forest. Did any of you see him on the day he was killed?”
“No, lord,” Alwin answered. “Neither did we know of his death until Sir Gerard came yesterday and told us.”
“Did anyone of his age and rank ever come to the village—apart from those in the company of the sheriff?”
Again the reeve shook his head. “Only the bailiff ever comes here. And he is a man of an age with my own years.”
“The boy must have come to where he was killed late in the evening of the day before or perhaps during that same night. Did you hear anything—voices or horses—out in the woods at that time?”
Again the stubborn shake of denial. Then the priest spoke up. “There are always some sounds in the forest after darkness has fallen, Sir Bascot. Once daylight has gone many creatures—foxes, owls and the like—come out to seek their prey. Unless a great disturbance was made, any slight noise would be thought just the sounds of their foraging.”
Bascot sighed and stood up. “If anyone remembers anything, Father, I would be pleased if you would let me know. Tostig will get a message to me.”
They all went back outside and Bascot looked around for Gianni, who had disappeared, along with the dog, from the doorway of the church. The villagers were still clustered about in clumps of two or three, watching silently as their priest led the visitors back in the direction of the gate. Suddenly there was the crash of splintering wood and the bellow of an animal; then a girl came running from one of the buildings near the pond. She was young and buxom, her fair hair streaming down her back like a ribbon of amber and, as she ran, she sobbed, stuffing her fist in her mouth to stifle the sound. She came straight towards Bascot and, when she reached him, threw herself down on the ground at his feet.
“It’s my fault, lord. My fault that the squire is dead. I said…I said I would meet him, but I didn’t go. He must have been waiting for me and…and got himself murdered by poachers or some other outlaws.” She hung her head down, pushing her hands into the muddy earth at her knees. “It’s all my fault,” she said again.
Alwin went over to the girl and wrenched her roughly to her feet. “Slut,” he mouthed at her. “You’ll get us all in trouble with your wanton fancies. I told you to stay hidden and keep your lips sealed.”
“I couldn’t, Uncle.” She turned and pointed in the direction of the shed, from which could still be heard an agitated lowing, multiplied now by the din of all the village dogs barking in chorus. From the shed strode Gianni, a grin on his face and a sharp pointed stick in his hand.
“That boy, the Templar’s servant, he found me hiding in the cowshed. He tried to pull me out and when I wouldn’t come he poked our milch cow so hard she tried to kick herself out of her box. If I hadn’t of come out she’d of kicked me as well.” The girl’s mouth drooped in resignation. “‘Sides, the boy recognised me. If not today, I’d of been found out soon enough. Someone at the castle would have remembered me talking to the squire.”
Bascot looked more closely at the girl. She seemed vaguely familiar but he could not recall where he had seen her before. As Gianni came up, the boy made a series of quick hand gestures to his master, conveying that the girl had been at Lincoln castle, then hunched his shoulders and mimed a straddle-footed walk to suggest carrying a yoke laden with a heavy burden.
The girl sighed heavily. “That’s right, sir. I help the milkmaids up at the castle to make buttermilk for the sheriff’s table.” Just for a second, pride gleamed in her eyes and her prettiness was plain. “I make good buttermilk, lord. Lady Nicolaa asks for me special to come on the two days of service our village owes each week.”
“How is it that you became acquainted with the squire?” Bascot asked her.
“He saw me, sir, coming from the dairy. He kept pesterin’ me and…”
“And you, slut, fell in with his lewdity,” Alwin shouted, giving her an open-handed slap across the back of her head. The girl began crying again, tears spilling down her face and her nose beginning to run as she squirmed away from her uncle.
“Enough,” Bascot said as Alwin moved to give his niece another blow. Tostig stepped forward and caught hold of the reeve’s upraised arm.
“I don’t think you’d be wise to do that, Alwin. Leave the girl be,” the forester said. Alwin gave Tostig a look of surprise, then glanced at Bascot and, seeing his anger, reluctantly dropped his hand.
Bascot turned his attention to the girl. “What is your name?”
“Bettina, lord,” she answered fearfully.
“You will come with me, and Father Samson, into the church and tell me what you know of this matter.” He swung towards Alwin. “You, and the rest of the villagers, will stay here. All of you have contrived to hide information about the murder of Sir William’s squire. If you do not wish to increase the sheriff’s choler when he learns of your deception, you will cease this pretense. Otherwise, the consequences will be your own fault.”
As Father Samson helped the sobbing Bettina to her feet and led her towards the church, Bascot stopped to speak quietly to Gianni. “Well done. Now, watch them. And watch Copley and Eadric, too. The agister is a sight too complacent with his power here not to have some knowledge of this matter. I would know more of him.”
Bascot followed the priest and the girl into the church and gently shut the door behind them.
“S
O YOU THINK IT POSSIBLE THAT
H
UBERT MAY HAVE
gone out to meet the girl and been set upon by the poachers that were roaming the woods?” Nicolaa de la Haye’s mouth set in a moue as she asked the question.
Bascot nodded. “It is possible, certainly. Whether it is probable, I am not sure.”
After the Templar had returned to the castle later that day he had gone to the castellan’s private chamber to give his report. Nicolaa had offered him a glass of wine and set out a dish of
candi
, boiled lumps of sugar made from sweet canes in the Holy Land and transported to England by the Templar Order. A store had been put by for the guests that would soon flood the castle but, knowing how fond Bascot was of them, Nicolaa had ordered a few sent to her room. Now, seated across from her at a broad oak table, he savoured the sweet taste of the
candi
, called
al-Kandiq
by the Arabs, as it mingled with the sharp bite of the wine. The sensation of pleasure was well worth the ache he knew would settle in his back teeth later on.
“You think, then, that the girl is not telling the truth?” Nicolaa asked.
“It is not that I am questioning. Her tale seems honest enough—up to a point. She is to be married soon, to the son of a villein from another village. She is happy with her groom-to-be and did not welcome Hubert’s advances, but he threatened to have her anyway, whether she was willing or no, and told her that it would be better for her to give him what he wanted without a struggle, rather than otherwise. Frightened of Hubert, and of her uncle, she said she would do as he wished and arranged to meet him at the ruins of the old hunting lodge late that evening. Then she went home and told Alwin’s wife, her aunt, what had happened. The aunt told Alwin and, after conferring with a couple of other villagers, it was decided that they would keep Bettina inside and close the gates to the compound early. This they claim they did, keeping the whole matter from the priest, who is elderly and always early abed. The villagers also insist that they heard nothing from the woods that night that was unusual.”