I
N THE TEMPLAR PRECEPTORY, BASCOT DE MARINS WAS ATTENDING to the neglected paperwork. It was already into the month of March and there was much to be done before Eastertide arrived in the first week of April. Outside, the weather had become even warmer and a few spatters of rain had fallen, signalling the end of the cold spell. Soon, the winter season over, Templar brothers from all over the kingdom would be on their way to London and thence to active duty in Outremer and Portugal, and it was Bascot’s duty to ensure that all those who passed through Lincoln were well equipped with arms and clothing. The list he was compiling was necessary to that task, being drawn from inventories he had taken and was now comparing to the expected requirement. He must ensure there were enough supplies on hand to outfit the newly arrived knights and men-at-arms before they were sent to their various posts.
But try as he might, his mind would not focus on the columns of figures, and kept returning to the murder of Aubrey Tercel, and the violent assault that had, all those years ago, set in motion a train of events that had eventually led to the young man’s death. In one way, the solution to this most recent murder investigation had been the least satisfying of all those he had undertaken. And although he did not condone Margaret’s actions, he felt some sympathy for the woman; she had not committed the murder for selfish reasons, but to protect a sister who was dear to her, and her desperation, although misguided, was understandable. It was not Edith Wickson and her family who should have suffered so much pain, but the miscreant who had attacked and raped Edith all those years ago. The injustice left a vile aftertaste of bitterness.
Knowing he would not be able to complete the task in front of him while his thoughts were so distracted, Bascot threw down the quill pen he had been using, laid his papers aside and went out into the compound.
In the middle of the enclave was an area used as a training ground where the brothers practised the military skills that were a prerequisite of the Order. On the edge of the bare circle of beaten earth, Preceptor d’Arderon was examining a shipment of blunted swords that had been sent by the Order’s armoury in London. They were of the longer, heavier type that were wielded by those of knight’s rank in mock combat, as opposed to the short swords used by the men-at-arms. D’Arderon was hefting one of them to test the balance. The preceptor looked up as Bascot came into the compound and, seeing the black look on the younger knight’s face, recalled the conversation they had had the evening before and made an accurate guess as to the cause of his gloom.
Although Bascot, in keeping with his reticent nature, had spoken little of his dissatisfaction with the outcome of this latest enquiry, D’Arderon was aware of it. The younger knight was adept at concealing his emotions, but the preceptor knew they ran deep. Even though, after so many years, it would be impossible to apprehend the villain who had attacked and violated a young and innocent girl, the failure to mete out retribution for the crime offended Bascot’s strong sense of probity. D’Arderon’s younger confrere needed an outlet on which to vent his frustration and as the preceptor’s glance fell on the wooden case that held the recently arrived weapons, a notion came to him of a way in he which he could provide one.
Picking up one of the swords, d’Arderon tossed it, haft forward, to Bascot. With an automatic reaction, Bascot caught the weapon and looked at the older knight in surprise.
“What think you of the weight?” the preceptor asked, reaching down and extracting another blade. “They seem to me to be lighter than usual.” Grasping the hilt in his two broad hands, he arced the sword experimentally through the air, then shook his head uncertainly. “I think perhaps they should be tested before they are put to use by any new initiate to the Order.”
Since there were only d’Arderon and Bascot of knight’s status in the commandery at the moment, Bascot realised that the only way the swords could be tried was for the preceptor and himself to face each other in mock battle. It was not often that d’Arderon engaged in such an exercise, although he kept himself fit by spending at least two hours each day raining blows with a heavy metal bar on one of the wooden blocks set up at the far end of the compound. Now past his sixtieth year, the preceptor’s wide, stocky body was, nonetheless, still heavily muscled and Bascot knew that despite being a score of years younger, he would be hard put to keep pace with the older knight. Still, he welcomed the challenge and appreciated the preceptor’s purpose in offering it. To put his skills to such a hard use would divert his mind from the darkness that was engulfing it.
D’Arderon sent one of the men-at-arms for two of the kite-shaped shields kept in the armoury, and told him to also bring a pair of helms, solid steel caps fitted with nasal bars. Both the preceptor and Bascot were wearing the heavy boiled leather tunics that were commonly donned in wintertime and, since the swords were blunted, there would not be any need for chain mail. When the soldier returned with the equipment, the rest of the brothers in the enclave stood back, expectant grins on their faces, to watch the two senior officers engage in combat.
As he and d’Arderon circled each other, Bascot knew he had to be wary of the preceptor’s larger bulk. The older knight, he was certain, would not be as quick on his feet as in the days of his youth, but the strength of the preceptor’s arm would more than make up for his lack of speed. They traded a few tentative blows and then Bascot was taken by surprise as d’Arderon surged forward and rained blows on his helm. He had not expected the preceptor to move with such alacrity, a mistake he would not make again. Turning so that his sighted left side gave him more clarity of vision, Bascot locked his shield into that of his opponent, and pushed d’Arderon back, then aimed a blow at the preceptor’s momentarily exposed sword arm. D’Arderon barely had time to ward off the attack and retaliated with eagerness, his blunted sword whirling.
The battle went on for some minutes, both knights enjoying the fray, with first one gaining the advantage and then the other. The watching men-at-arms could not contain their admiration for the skill they were watching, and above the clang of metal, their whoops of appro
val could be plainly heard. When the small bell in the chapel tower rang out a warning that it was almost time for
the service of Vespers, it was to the disappointment of all that the contest was called to a halt. Reluctantly, both combatants lowered their shields, and then grinned at one another.
D’Arderon slung his buckler across his shoulder and, coming over to where Bascot stood, clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you tired enough now to let your anger rest?” her rest? said.
“I am, Preceptor, and thank you for your instruction,” Bascot replied gratefully.
“Then come, and we will go and worship Our Blessed Lord together.”
As they and the other Templars filed into the church, Bascot felt the warmth of camaraderie engulf him. The strenuous exercise had lifted the cloud of his despondency and it was with a joyous heart that he went forward to join his brothers in prayer.
Author’s Note
The setting for
A Deadly Penance
is an authentic one. Nicolaa de la Haye was hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle during this period, and her husband, Gerard Camville,
was sheriff. The personalities they have been g
iven in the story have been formed by conclusions the author has drawn from events during the reigns of King Richard I and King John.
For details of medieval Lincoln and the Order of the Knights Templar, I am much indebted to the following:
Medieval Lincoln
by J. W.F. Hill (Cambridge University Press)
Dungeon, Fire and Sword—The Knights Templar in the Crusades
by John J. Robinson (M. Evans & Company, Inc.)
MAUREEN ASH was born in London, England, and has had a lifelong interest in British medieval history. Visits to castle ruins and old churches have provided the inspiration for her novels. She enjoys Celtic music, browsing in bookstores and Belgian chocolate. Maureen now lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Maureen Ash
THE ALEHOUSE MURDERS
DEATH OF A SQUIRE
A PLAGUE OF POISON
MURDER FOR CHRIST’S MASS
SHROUD OF DISHONOUR
A DEADLY PENANCE