The Canterbury Murders (13 page)

“I am sorry,” Miles said lamely but with sincerity. Even though he could not understand what it was that she had found attractive about the pompous steward, it was apparent her sorrow was genuine and he truly hoped that, with time, it would be eased. “This other man that joined them, did you know him?”

“No, I had never seen him before. I assume he was one of the servants that had come with the king from Normandy, for he had a badge bearing the royal insignia stitched on the side of his hat.”

“Can you describe him to me?” Miles asked.

“He was tall, and of a clerkly appearance, with a rather large nose and receding chin.”

Miles and Gianni exchanged glances. The man whom Cecily had described could only be Guillaume Aquarius, the king’s bath attendant. The fact that he had been in conversation with the two people who had, so soon after, been murdered might be of no import, but he would need to be questioned about it all the same. Thanking Cecily for her time, Miles rose from his seat and, with Gianni at his side, took leave of the grief-stricken widow.

Chapter Twenty

By the time Bascot and William Marshal had finished questioning de Ponte and his employees, snow was falling heavily and beginning to lie thick upon the ground. As they rode out of the bail, the Templar said that before he went to the royal townhouse to conduct further interviews with the servants, he would return to Watling Street to learn the outcome of Miles and Gianni’s visit to Mistress Cooper. The earl decided to accompany him. “Perhaps if I linger long enough,” he said, only half in jest, “Lady Nicolaa will invite me to stay for the midday meal. There are few travellers in the guesthouse at the moment and it will be pleasant to share the company of those who have a degree of bonhomie. The good brothers at the priory show me every courtesy, but are far from mirthful.”

Giving Bascot a sidelong glance, he added, “I mean no disparagement of your calling, de Marins. The fault is mine. I fear my temperament is not suited to gravity.”

The Templar smiled and took no offence at the statement. He had a liking for Marshal and welcomed his company.

Shortly after they arrived at Watling Street, Gianni and Miles came in and joined them in the hall where they were sitting with Nicolaa, Gilles de Laubrec and Clare. Over a cup of mulled wine, Miles related what had passed during their visit to the washerwoman’s sister and how they had been told that Inglis had a paramour. He then went on to relate the details of their interview with Cecily Wattson, and her witness of what appeared to be an argument between her lover and the washerwoman.

“She also said,” Miles added, “that a man joined the pair during the quarrel and her description fits Guillaume Aquarius, the bath attendant.”

“If I recall the information in Gianni’s notes correctly,” Bascot said, “did Aquarius not say, during your interview with him, that he had no knowledge of any person with whom the washwoman was at odds?”

“Yes. It is obvious he is lying, but I cannot fathom why. It could not have been to protect the steward from suspicion, for he, too, has since been murdered.”

“Nonetheless, there must have been a reason,” Bascot said. “And one that must be found out. I will take the matter up with the bath attendant when I go to the townhouse.”

At that moment, Dauton entered the chamber and announced that the midday meal was ready to be served. As the earl had hoped, Nicolaa invited him to join them and they all sat down to the repast, Gianni and Clare at the bottom of the table as befit their lower stations.

All of them ate with relish; there was beef roasted over a spit and glazed with a crispy layer of fat, coney pie and a hearty lamb pottage, accompanied by small loaves of manchet bread and a wheel of creamy cheese. Once they had finished the main course, bowls of winter apples and preserves of apricot, apple and plum followed along with a huge platter of oatmeal griddle cakes. The conversation was lively. Miles encouraged the earl to speak of his younger days, when he had earned his livelihood on the tourney circuit, and there was much merriment as Marshal told of the time he had faced a raw young knight who had been so cack-handed there was a danger of being unseated by virtue of his clumsiness.

“He sent his squire to me afterwards,” Marshal said, “asking my pardon for his inexperience and offering a purse of silver in recompense. Even though I had already won his saddle and armour, I took it, for he had, it seemed, more money than sense.”

While the others laughed, Bascot noticed that Lady Nicolaa remained silent and lost in contemplation. In a murmured aside to Gilles, who was sitting next him, he asked if aught had occurred that morning to distract her.

“Not that I know of,” de Laubrec answered. “She was a little pensive before we attended Mass at the cathedral, but the service seemed to hearten her, and she was in good spirits afterwards. But then she was called to a meeting with Archbishop Walter and her glum mood returned. She has hardly spoken a word since she left him.”

Just as Marshal proclaimed his intention of returning to the priory, Dauton ushered in a man-at-arms from the castle, who had come with a message for the earl.

“Constable Criel gives you his greeting, lord, and has sent me to tell you that the king has returned from Dover and requests that you join him at the cathedral guesthouse.” The soldier’s cloak was sodden with a layer of snow and Marshal, noting the fact, said he had better be on his way before the streets became impassable.

After the earl left, and Miles and Gilles excused themselves, Nicolaa dismissed Clare and Gianni and asked Bascot to remain. Once the tables had been cleared, and Dauton had poured them both a cup of wine, she told the steward to shut the door behind him and ensure that she and the Templar were not disturbed.

Once they were alone, Nicolaa took a sip of her wine and sat in silence for a moment before speaking. “I have a request to make of you, de Marins, concerning this murder investigation. But before I do so, I must ask you to keep in confidence what I am about to say and reveal it to no one, not even the Earl of Pembroke.”

The seriousness with which she spoke made Bascot pause before he answered. He had no wish to offend her but could not, in all conscience, pledge to do as she asked, for he was constrained by the rules of the Order. “Lady, I would willingly comply, but you must know that, as a Templar, I am bound to report all of my actions, and any information I learn, to Master Berard in London.”

Nicolaa ran her fingers around the base of the wine cup, as though the movement would help her to phrase her next words. Finally, she said, “Apart from that proviso, will you give me your word?”

“I will,” Bascot replied.

Nicolaa sighed. “I cannot tell you the reason for what I am about to ask you to do; only that it is not of my making, nor to my liking, but that, in loyalty to my oath of fealty, I am duty bound to safeguard certain information. Do you understand?”

“I think so, lady,” Bascot said. Her phrasing left him in no doubt that the matter was connected to the king.

“Very well,” Nicolaa replied. “Then I must ask that if, during the course of the investigation, you discover the motive for the slayings, or the identity of the perpetrator, you take no action upon that finding, or share the details with anyone, not even Gianni, until you have first reported to me.”

“That could prove difficult, lady, if, by so doing, the culprit might escape.”

“I am aware of that, de Marins, and decry the need to restrain you in such a fashion. Nonetheless, I must ask for your pledge.”

Bascot studied the castellan for a moment. That she was a woman who held honour as high as any man, he well knew. It was also obvious that the request was distasteful to her and that she would not have made it if there had been any other option. He owed her much, not only for the consideration she had shown him when he had arrived in Lincoln some years before, but also for her benevolent care of Gianni after he rejoined the Order. The very fact that she would never call these debts to account was reason enough to repay her; and if she allowed him to do so within the confines of his Templar oath, he saw no reason not to comply.

“I will do as you ask, lady,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-one

The snow continued to fall and, by mid-afternoon, was well over a foot in depth. Because the snow had rendered the streets almost impassable, Bascot decided to leave re-interviewing the servants at the royal townhouse until the next day. Not only did he need to reflect on the reason for Nicolaa de la Haye’s request, he also, after learning about the argument Cecily Wattson had overheard between the two victims, and that Aquarius had been there while it was going on, wanted to again review the information that had been compiled about the bath attendant. To that last purpose, he looked for Gianni and, finding him in a small chamber sitting beside Clare while she sewed, asked him to bring the notes he had made. The lad ran to get his writings and returned with eager expectation on his face, presuming his former master would wish to discuss the details as they had been accustomed to do in the past. With a sad heart, and because of Nicolaa’s stricture, the Templar told him that he would see him later, at the evening meal, and dismissed him.

There was hurt and disappointment in Gianni’s eyes as he left and although Bascot regretted being the cause, he had no other recourse. The lad was too sharp not to sense that something was being kept from him and the Templar could not take the risk of the lad accidentally stumbling across whatever it was that Nicolaa wished kept secret.

Going to the small room he had been allotted as a bedchamber, Bascot used a tinder box to light a candle, then sat down on the pallet and laid the notes beside him. Removing the leather patch from his sightless eye, he leaned back against the wall and rubbed the distorted folds of flesh in the empty socket. It was an action he did only when alone, but it helped to focus his thoughts, as though the movement would restore his vision to wholeness and enable him to see the world with more clarity.

He had no doubt the king was behind the limitation Nicolaa had imposed. Her mention of being forced to make her request due to her oath of fealty made that certain. And, with the king’s devious mind, it could be for many purposes; he had made many enemies during his short time on the throne, and not all of them were in the lands across the Narrow Sea.

As he pondered thus, his eye fell on the pile of notes beside him. The top sheet detailed the interview Miles had held with Aquarius, and included the information that the bath attendant came from a town on the border of Brittany. One of the various motives being considered for the murders was that they had been perpetrated by a Breton taking revenge for the continuing imprisonment of their count, Arthur of Brittany, who was also John’s nephew. Arthur had disappeared some months before and the king had been adamant in his refusal to reveal his whereabouts. Could this secret be linked, in some fashion, to the stricture he had ordered, through Nicolaa, placed on the investigation?

The Templar pondered on this possibility but could not see any connection. Surely, he thought, after so long a passage of time, there was no danger to John if Arthur’s location was discovered, or even if the Bretons had learned, as was rumoured, that he had killed the lad. Arthur had committed the grave transgression of breaking his oath of fealty and John had the right to punish him as he saw fit. If he had executed the lad, while it might be descried that he had done so covertly, it was still within the realm of justice.

Bascot continued to speculate, testing one theory after another as to the reason for John’s dictate, even wondering if the two dead servants, because of their long service, had been in the king’s confidence about some important matter that might be revealed while their murders were being looked into, but neither that nor any of the other possibilities he considered seemed likely. Finally, he shook his head in frustration and replaced the leather patch over his eye. All of these meanderings were mere speculation, and brought no profit. With resolution he pushed Nicolaa’s request from his mind and, picking up the notes that lay beside him, began to reread them from the beginning.

***

In the cathedral precincts, Archbishop Hubert Walter also felt a need to collect his thoughts and put them in some sort of order. But, unlike the Templar, he wished to escape the confines of the room in which he had just spent the last hour in tense discussion with the king. The harsh snowy weather outside precluded a walk in the cloisters, and so he had left the warmth of the chamber where he had just had a meeting with John—a room situated on a side aisle underneath the monk’s dorter—and threaded his way through the passages that led out into the nave of the cathedral.

The great space was cold and empty, but the archbishop did not notice the chill. Underneath the heavy white wool of a robe of the Cistercian Order—of which he was a
confrater
, or associate member—worn for its comforting thickness, were several layers of woollen shirts and a pair of drawers. On his feet were leather buskins, calf-high boots that reached to his knees, that kept his feet well protected from the coldness of the stone slabs on the floor. He welcomed the silence in the nave; due to the harsh weather, none of the townsfolk had attended any services that day, and the monks, at this hour, had all repaired to the
frater
to partake of their evening meal.

The king had arrived a little over an hour before, having ridden directly from Dover to St. Sepulchre and, after installing Queen Isabella safely in the nunnery, had continued on to Canterbury. Tired from the journey, and frustrated by the news that yet another of his servants had been murdered, John had immediately sought out the archbishop to discuss the situation.

Walter, having just attended the service of Vespers, took the king to his private chamber underneath the dorter and had listened while John paced back and forth, raging at the person who had killed his servants. Walter had kept silent throughout the tirade; he knew that John, like his father, needed to vent his fury before he would be calm enough to listen to reason. King Henry, when infuriated, had often reacted violently, hurling himself to the ground and drumming his heels on the floor until his equanimity was restored. And so Walter had listened quietly while John had furiously expounded on the subject, and it had not been until he had threatened to torture all of the servants at the royal townhouse for information that the archbishop had finally spoken.

“Such an action would outrage the citizens of Canterbury, sire, and might well alienate the nobles whose support you will need at the council in a few weeks’ time.”

But John chose not to listen to Walter’s objection and had remained intent on carrying out his threat, saying that it was the only way to find out if one of them was guilty of the crimes. It had required all of Walter’s talent for persuasion to convince the king that it was far better to postpone such drastic measures until the investigation had run its course. Would it not be wiser, Walter had pleaded, to treat the whole matter until then in a detached fashion, lest the murderer be made aware of his distress and derive gratification from knowing he had caused it?

John had finally calmed somewhat as he listened to the archbishop’s sensible counsel and, after receiving the king’s promise to follow his suggestion, Walter had told him about his conversation with Nicolaa de la Haye.

“She has agreed, then, to my request to screen the information the Templar gathers?” John asked confidently.

“Yes, sire, but only under strong protest, which she expressed most adamantly,” Walter replied. “It is my feeling that her trust in you has been severely compromised.” The archbishop then related Nicolaa’s exact words.

John was shocked by her response and became truculent. “Did you not explain to her that what happened to Arthur was an accident, that it was not intentional?”

“Of course,” Walter replied. “It is not the incident itself that discomforts her, sire, but the fact that you wish to keep the whole matter secret. And I would venture to say that her reaction is typical of any other of your nobles who might discover the truth, especially William Marshal.”

John sensed the reproach in the archbishop’s words. Walter had been appalled when he had received a letter from John earlier that year relating what had passed and had strongly urged John to make all haste in revealing his nephew’s whereabouts, and to publically declare the nature of his injuries and how they had occurred. When John had refused, Walter’s condemnation of his decision, although unspoken, had been apparent, and the archbishop’s support, like Nicolaa’s, had been given most reluctantly.

Walter’s reaction to John’s suggestion that the castellan be approached had been to advise against it, pointing out that the fewer people made privy to the secret, the easier it would be to keep it so. But once again, John had perversely remained determined to pursue his own inclinations. Nicolaa could be trusted, he had said; she had always kept faith with him and he was certain she would do so now. It was her steadfastness, he had added, that had prompted him to send for the Templar. Bascot de Marins had reason to be indebted to Nicolaa and would refrain, he was sure, from questioning any direction she gave. But from the expression that appeared on John’s face when Walter told him of Nicolaa’s protest, it was obvious that he had not expected her to judge him so harshly. She and John had been friends since the days of his youth, and he had firmly believed that she would view the quandary in which he had placed himself with a sympathy born of that long association. That she had not had shaken him severely.

Walter had felt apprehension envelop him. John could be remorseless towards those he suspected might be capable of betraying him, and the archbishop wished he had kept Nicolaa’s objection to himself. Seeking to amend his error, he made an attempt to allay the king’s fears. “I am certain Lady Nicolaa will keep faith with you, sire. She has given her word and, if I judge her rightly, will keep it.”

John had given him a sad look and said, “And so would I, too, archbishop, had she not voiced her criticism so vociferously. She is not a woman to dissemble, and so I am forced to be wary, especially since I know her husband to be factious. Even the most faithful of hounds can suddenly turn on a master, and a bitch is often more dangerous than the male dog. I shall make an effort to restore amity between us, but if I fail, then I must, with the greatest regret, number her amongst those who might play me false.”

Walter shuddered inwardly. This was how John had reacted to William Marshal when the earl had dared to venture an opinion that was in opposition to his own. If the king continued along the reckless path he was pursuing, he would alienate more than just these two important vassals.

They spoke no more on the subject and Walter had given a hearty sigh of relief when John left to return to the guesthouse. Once the door had closed behind him, the archbishop had drunk deep of his wine cup in an effort to still his inner turbulence.

Now, as he stood in the nave, he gained comfort from the sanctity of his surroundings and breathed deeply of the lingering aroma of incense, hoping it would act as a balm to his troubled thoughts. John had always been unpredictable, and this was one of the reasons Walter had been hesitant about his suitability for kingship after Richard had died. But recently his capriciousness seemed to have intensified, and it was a trait that made the archbishop extremely uncomfortable. The king had begun his reign well and had exhibited many fine qualities—he was intelligent, energetic, cultured, a fine administrator and a more than competent military leader—and his audacity in snatching a rich heiress like Isabella from under the very nose of a dangerous rival had been more than a touch reminiscent of the boldness his father had displayed when he had stolen the affection of Eleanor of Aquitaine from her husband, King Louis of France. But since the disaffection of his liegemen in Normandy, and the disastrous outcome of his efforts to mend the rift with Arthur, John’s erratic nature had worsened.

The archbishop paced a step or two, feeling the weight of his advancing years, but he forced himself to shake the heaviness off. Much circumspection would be required at the forthcoming council, and these murders could make that task more difficult. He was no stranger to impediments such as these and had, in the past, faced many just as serious, overcoming them by his flair for diplomacy. This ability had enabled him to successfully mediate between King Richard and the Muslim leader, Saladin, and had facilitated in the raising of the huge amount of money needed to pay Richard’s ransom after he had been captured by Leopold of Austria. Walter had been well rewarded by Richard for his efforts, receiving the post of archbishop and justiciar from his hands. John, too, had shown his gratefulness for Walter’s ultimate support of his bid for the throne, and had made him chancellor in appreciation. But these high positions, although they brought wealth and acclaim, also carried great responsibility. He would be more than capable, he felt, of persuading the nobles who would attend the council in Oxford to aid John in retaking control of Normandy; it was the possibility that these murders might result in the secret about Arthur being exposed that was bedeviling him. If that should happen, the opinion of those whose support John so desperately needed could turn against him.

He glanced towards the north-west transept and the spot where the sainted Thomas Becket had been struck down in this very month, just after the celebration of Christ’s Mass, thirty-three years before. Shortly after the martyr’s death, a fire had gutted the choir and it was now in the process of being rebuilt, along with the erection of a new chapel. Once all was completed, the sainted bones of the murdered archbishop would be removed from behind the altar in the Chapel of Our Lady Undercroft in the crypt and placed inside the chapel. Life was often filled with adversities, such as those that had confronted Becket, but unlike his sainted predecessor, Walter was first and foremost dedicated to the monarch he served. And, just as he had done with Richard on more than one occasion, he would make every effort to successfully steer John safely through this troublesome time.