“He knows you would never betray him, Nicolaa. He has often spoken, not only to me but to others, of your father’s loyalty, and your own.” Hugh was being his most genial and persuasive but Nicolaa had known him too long for such tactics to work.
“He has no reason to doubt mine, Hugh, but every reason to doubt Gerard’s. And Richard is Gerard’s son. John is not a king to overlook past histories, or future possibilities. He has switched sides himself too often to be unaware of the propensities of others for doing the same. The question of marriage between my son and your daughter will have to wait. Neither Gerard or I will be offended if you should look elsewhere for a match for Matilda.”
Hugh sat back, rebuffed, his smile disappearing. Nicolaa motioned for a server to refill his goblet. Her mind was too full of tiredness, the thought of the energy that would be required for tomorrow’s festivities at the opening of the fair, and of the strange murders in the alehouse as well as Father Anselm’s dire state, to be overly concerned about Bardolf’s hurt feelings. There was not a lack of marriageable heiresses for her son, as Hugh well knew.
Her glance strayed down the table to where the eldest of Hugh’s two daughters, Matilda, sat with her mother and younger sister. She was not an unpleasant girl to look at, moderately round with the promise of a pleasingly plump frame when she reached maturity, medium brown hair and a demure manner. However, Nicolaa suspected that her modesty was often a pose put on for the benefit of her elders. There had been a day, when Matilda had thought herself unobserved and was with people her own age, that Nicolaa had overheard her conversation with the others. Matilda’s speech had been quick and racy, bordering on the lewd. From that moment Nicolaa had dismissed her as a possible wife for Richard, not because of her bawdiness, but because she hid her inclination for it so well. When she was finally presented with a grandchild, Nicolaa wanted it to be from her son’s loins, not those of some carefully concealed lover.
Matilda’s younger sister, Alaine, on the other hand, was far more to Nicolaa’s taste, for she had an open merry face, with a ready laugh and quick wit. However, she was only eleven, some five years younger than her sister, and it was possible she would change as she grew older. The onset of womanhood was a difficult time for any girl and could often bring about radical changes in temperament. Her own sister, Ermingard, had become an entirely different person after the advent of her menses.
Nicolaa looked down the table to where Ermingard now sat, flanked by her husband, William de Rollos, on one side, and their dour-faced son, Ivo, on the other. De Rollos was a stolid Norman knight and had ostensibly brought his family from Normandy to attend the fair and to visit Ermingard’s family, but in reality he was looking for support from Nicolaa and Gerard in regard to his claim over some disputed land in Normandy. Ermingard sat as though imprisoned between her husband and her son, her red gold hair dimmed with grey, as was Nicolaa’s own, and her small heart-shaped face prematurely showing lines of age.
The placement between her two menfolk was not without reason on William’s part, for his wife could, without warning, be subject to wild changes of mood, one moment unspeaking and the next spilling with laughter at some jest apparent to no one but herself. She had been subject to these startling lapses from lucidity ever since the day she had come running to Nicolaa in a state of fright, her clothing dishevelled, holding a bloodstained rag in her hand and screaming in fright at the gush of bright redness that had suddenly appeared between her legs. No explanations from Nicolaa or from the next eldest of the Haye daughters, Petronille, could alleviate Ermingard’s distress and she stayed in a state of shock for days until her cycle had ended, only to get into a similar condition a month later when it happened all over again. Never since the day their mother died had Nicolaa felt her loss so heavily.
Her gaze strayed over to her other sister, Petronille, a plump motherly figure who had inherited the dark hair and eyes of their mother. She was sitting at the far end of the long table on the dais, between an elderly priest and another vassal of King John’s, Philip de Kyme. De Kyme was a grizzled and truculent baron about the same age as Gerard. He had rheumy dark eyes, a sallow expression and could be extremely argumentative when he had taken too much wine. Seating Petronille beside him had been a diplomatic decision on Nicolaa’s part. Her middle sister had a very calm nature, capable of listening to another’s speech without showing impatience or the need to thrust her own conversation forward. She was at ease with her table companions even though the old cleric was mumbling almost constantly as he ate meat from the trencher in front of him, and Philip de Kyme, as usual, was complaining about his son-by-marriage and lamenting the lack of an heir from his own seed. Petronille, deftly passing more food to the priest and murmuring an assent to his disjointed phrases, still managed to be able to listen to de Kyme and give the correct response in the right place.
Nicolaa hoped Petronille would be able to stay for longer than the few days she had said was all she could afford to be absent from her husband and household in Stamford. Petronille was a balm that Nicolaa sorely needed at the moment, especially with difficult guests like Philip de Kyme, who was, at that moment, casting angry glances about him.
The object of his disgruntlement, his stepson Conal, stood laughing and drinking a cup of wine a short distance away in the company of her own son, Richard. The pair had finished eating and had strolled over to watch a trio of tumblers who were cleverly balancing on each other’s shoulders and dropping down and back in almost constant motion, all within the confines of a tiny patch of floor. One of the tumblers was female, her legs encased, for modesty’s sake, in thin woollen stockings under her skirt. But for all the covering, her shapeliness could be seen as she flew up and down between the hands of her two partners and Nicolaa saw that Richard’s eyes were fixed in an avid stare on her antics while Conal, son of de Kyme’s wife from her first marriage, watched Richard, amusement on his face.
They made a handsome pair, the two young friends, so recently dubbed into knighthood. Richard had hair that was almost as bright a red as her own had once been, with a genial manner and a strength of limb and shoulder that promised to soon equal his father’s. Beside him Conal looked slim, but his tall lanky build was deceiving, for Nicolaa had seen him best larger and more experienced men on the practice field. He was fair, like his mother, and his features were finely drawn, giving his full mouth and bright grey eyes an almost feminine look.
Nicolaa shook her head. Richard, she knew, was a lecher, just as her father had been. Somehow it was more disturbing in an offspring than a parent, but she gave thanks that his inclinations were not like Conal’s who, although it was never spoken of openly, was suspected of liking members of his own sex in preference to females. This conjecture stemmed from the fact that he seemed to show none of a young man’s usual interest in women. To be fair, neither did he seem attracted to any of the young pages or squires with whom he came into daily contact and Nicolaa was sure that Richard would not have befriended Conal if there was any suspicion of an aberration in his sexual proclivities. The hint of sodomy was ever apparent in de Kyme’s complaints of his stepson, however, and in his bewailing of no heir to carry on his line. There were de Kyme’s aplenty in Lincoln, he would moan, but not one of them his own true son. Then he would look pointedly at the long-suffering woman to whom he was married and shake his head. It was fortunate that tonight his wife, Sybil, had asked to be excused from the feast, pleading illness as an excuse to keep to her bed.
Nicolaa shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. She remembered vaguely from her own youth that there had been some ruckus at the time of de Kyme’s marriage to Sybil, who was older than he and a widow with a young son. Philip had apparently wanted to wed another, but the girl had been of low birth and dowerless and Philip’s father had threatened his son with the loss of his inheritance if he did not wed Conal’s mother. Recently, he had taken to constantly referring mysteriously to the fact that, had he been allowed his own inclinations in the matter of his marriage, he would have heirs aplenty and it was not too late to rectify the matter. So repetitive were his complaints that no one took much notice of them anymore, not even Gerard, who was closest to de Kyme in that they often shared the pleasure of the hunt or the sampling of some new wine from Poitou.
Nicolaa gave herself a mental shake. That morning the castle chaplain had spoken at Mass of the dangers of the seven deadly sins, no doubt aiming to warn his flock against indulgence while the fair, with its atmosphere of freedom and gaiety, took over the more sober routine of Lincoln for the next few days. Each of us, the priest had said, is guilty of at least one of the deadly sins at some time, and often of two or more. Nicolaa ran through them in her mind—Lust, Pride, Avarice, Envy, Sloth, Anger and Covetousness. She looked around at her companions at the high table. Yes, she thought, the priest was right—we are all guilty of at least one of those sins. Hugh of covetousness, de Kyme of anger, Gerard of sloth, Richard, her son, of lust—just in such a short space she could pick these out and, she admitted, there was her own sin of pride, which she excused to herself by naming it a strong sense of duty. We are all sinners, she thought, even if only in the secrecy of our own hearts. But the priest had also reminded his flock of the seven virtues—Faith, Hope, Charity, Justice, Prudence, Temperance and Fortitude—and told them that at least one of these also was possessed by each man or woman, and that by prayer these virtues could be strengthened to overcome the temptation of the seven deadly sins.
Judging by the raucous laughter and drunken merriment of the crowd in the hall tonight, Nicolaa thought it certainly seemed true that the virtues were harder to find than the sins. Her gaze fell on the Templar, Bascot de Marins. He was an enigma to her, seeming to be completely self-contained except in his relationship with his young servant. It had been on impulse that she had given him the task of trying to discover the identity of the murderer of the four people in the alehouse. He had proved himself a valuable addition to her retinue, but she had the feeling that he had talents beyond those required for a simple clerk and she had wanted to bring them out. The rule that the Templars who left their Order could only do so on condition they join a monastic order stricter than their own was a loose one, and Nicolaa was sure that if she brought pressure to bear on the Grand Master of the Temple in London he would agree to overlook this stipulation with regard to Bascot. Since she hoped the Templar would wish to leave the Order and accept an offer to remain in her household, she wondered if giving him additional responsibility might not defeat her own purpose. It may just drive him into making the very decision she least wanted, that of returning to the Order that he had become, at least temporarily, disenchanted with. Ah well, she thought, as her father had often said, a metal must be well tempered to ring true. And, as with metal, so it was with men. That was a lesson she had learned too well to ignore.
Ten
B
ASCOT AND GIANNI LEFT THE GREAT HALL DIRECTLY after Nicolaa de la Haye stood and announced that she was retiring. Her husband, Gerard, stayed in his seat, motioning for the servers to refill his wine cup and that of Philip de Kyme, who had moved to sit beside him. Most of the ladies who were staying within the precincts of the castle followed their hostess’ example, leaving the men folk to their wine and talk of old battles, while the visiting merchants and their wives, with lodgings hired in the town, also left. But the bulk of the barons and lesser lords stayed where they were, settling themselves in to enjoy the Haye largesse for as long as it was proffered. There would be sore heads aplenty in the morning but since they were there for pleasure and not for work, as the merchants were, none cared.
When Bascot and Gianni reached their tiny chamber the boy, finally full of food, slumped onto his pallet and within moments was fast asleep. Bascot left the boy to his slumbers and walked up the few steps to the battlements of the tower. The walkway faced south, so that he could see out over the curtain wall to the town spread out below and to where the streets drifted down the hill to the River Witham at the lower end. The night air was fresh from the rain and a small wind was blowing. Above was a canopy of stars, washed with the faint light that never seems to leave the sky at the high point of summer. In the semidarkness a few bats flitted. He removed his eye patch and felt a rush of air cool the withered socket beneath.
As always when up high, the loss of half his sight made him feel slightly dizzy, but long years of practice had made him accustomed to it and he gripped the solid stone of the battlements to steady himself. The light of torches could be seen bobbing here and there as the merchants and their families made their way to their various lodgings. Even within some of the dwellings a light could be seen, though it was long past
couvre feu
or, as the English speaking population pronounced it, curfew. There would be no fines tonight for those who broke the law and stayed late abroad since the advent of the fair in the morning was considered a valid enough excuse to do so.
His dizziness under control, Bascot leaned onto the stone of the crenellations and let his thoughts drift, planning how he would set about fulfilling the task that Nicolaa de la Haye had given him. The scrap of cloth that Gianni had found he could show to the drapers and weavers gathered for the festivities. It might be worthwhile to visit a few silversmiths and ask about the brooch, to see if they could determine its origin. He would need to visit the Jews and ask if the whereabouts of Samuel in the day or two before he met his death were known. It would also be advisable to visit the three places where the alekeeper had made his deliveries and try to discover if he had been seen at any house other than those at which he was known to have stopped. Of course, if the priest recovered and could identify his assailant, Bascot’s task might be made easier.