That had been in the last days of the reign of King Henry, during one of the many skirmishes that the king had engaged in with his recalcitrant son, Richard. But throughout all the glory of battle and the attendant dangers of injury or death, Bascot had still yearned for his boyhood days in the cloister. When Henry had died and Richard had succeeded to the throne, the new king’s obsession to mount a Crusade to the Holy Land had seemed to Bascot to provide a way to satisfy both his own desires and those of his father. With his eldest brother now married and a new heir on the way, Bascot had begged to be allowed to combine his yearning for the life of a monk with his military skills and join the Knights Templar.
For Bascot, his first months as a warrior monk had lived up to his expectations. He had been attached to a Templar contingent that had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land, and the battles along the way, at Sicily and Cyprus, had satisfied his conviction of the rightness of his decision. He had still felt this way when the army had reached their destination and had begun the tremendous task of trying to retrieve Jerusalem from the infidels. This ebullience had carried him along until the siege of Acre. There, on a hot August day, on the plains outside the conquered city, he had watched in horrified amazement as King Richard had ordered the slaughter of nearly three thousand prisoners taken as hostage. Bascot had felt his stomach churn with a sickness that had never before assailed him, not even on the day he had first plied his sword and drawn the life’s blood of an armed enemy. Amongst the prisoners were many women and children and they were slain as mercilessly as their men folk. He had finally fled the bloody scene when the lifeless bodies were being methodically gutted in a search for gold that the victims may have swallowed in an attempt to hide it. Others in the Templar contingent had been as shocked as he but, although the Templars were not under the king’s command and were answerable only to the head of their own order, their master, Robert de Sable, was a friend of King Richard’s and they had continued, despite the stigma of the massacre, to accompany the king on his mission. It was about that time that Bascot had begun to question the depth of his devotion to the Order, and his subsequent capture and imprisonment had done nothing to help him find any answers.
Now he was confronted by a different kind of riddle and, in order to solve it, needed to fathom the machinations of a mind that would secretly plot the killing of four people. A spark of his old anger at being manipulated by the intrigues of others rose within him and he encouraged it, making a firm resolution that he would not let any obstacle deter him from being the victor in this battle to apprehend the assassin. And he would fortify himself for the fray ahead with the best weapons he had, the mail and sword of a knight of Christ.
Attempting to dismiss the gloomy and introspective thoughts from his mind, Bascot distracted himself by noting the terrain that bordered the road upon which they were travelling. After crossing the Fossdyke they followed the course of the Trent river, on the western side of which a fringe of forest began, sweeping away in a sporadic growth of trees to become the northern tip of Sherwood Forest. They passed a few hamlets with the open spaces of tilled fields around them, but there were many places where alder and oak grew, as well as the drooping branches of willow at the river’s bank, and there was dense undergrowth that would provide perfect concealment from the road. Had it been in one of these spots that the murderer had waited, hidden, until his victims should come into view? It would be easy to appear behind them, as though travelling the same route, and engage them in conversation. But where had they then been taken? As Isaac had said, the road was well patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Bascot and his escort had already passed a pair of Roget’s men, and he could see two more ahead, riding slowly north in a circuit that would no doubt end at Torksey.
The day was hot and Bascot did not press the pace out of deference to their mounts. About an hour after they had passed through Torksey they approached Philip de Kyme’s demesne. Outside the palisade that surrounded his manor house an orderly and prosperous looking village was spread. The cottages were sturdily built of wattle and daub and a meeting hall of reasonable size stood in the center, two stories high and constructed of timber. There was a quantity of pigs, geese and some penned sheep which all looked fat and healthy, as did the inhabitants, who doffed their caps respectfully as the group of horsemen cantered past.
Bascot rode down the track of packed earth that led through the village and up to the gates of the manor, Ernulf at his right hand and the two men-at-arms behind. The gateward let them through, once they had identified themselves and stated their business, giving one blast on a signal horn to announce their arrival. Inside the bailey de Kyme’s steward met them and called a groom to see to the stabling of their horses. The manor house itself was impressive, with corner turrets built of stone, a central hall of timber and a massive oak door reinforced with iron plates. The steward led the way into the hall which, since it was not yet mealtime, was bare of tables except for a large one that sat on the dais and was a permanent fixture. Directing the serjeant and two men-at-arms to a corner where there was a keg of ale, the steward led Bascot to the other end of the hall. There a group of men were seated around an unlit fireplace, drinking wine. A chessboard lay nearby, its pieces set ready for a game.
At the center of the group sat de Kyme, richly dressed and, to judge by his high colour, already blown with wine. His greying locks hung lankly and his mouth was slack. Next to him sat a man Bascot did not recognise. He had a wide fleshy face and hatchet-shaped nose below a thatch of black hair cropped in a haphazard fashion. Next to him was a lad of perhaps fourteen years, enough alike in appearance, especially about the nose, to be his son. On de Kyme’s left sat another stranger, this one above middle height and with red hair and a foxy expression. Sitting beside this stranger Bascot was surprised to see Hugh Bardolf and, next to him, William de Rollos, husband to Nicolaa de la Haye’s sister, Ermingard. Bardolf’s loose-limbed body was sprawled neatly in his seat, and with more than a glimmer of interest in his eyes he watched Bascot approach, while de Rollos gave the Templar only a curt nod of greeting and flicked his eyes away, as though embarrassed at being found in de Kyme’s hall.
“You are well come, Templar,” de Kyme said, his speech slurring slightly. Calling to a servant to bring more wine and another cup for his guest, he then introduced Bascot to his companions. The burly man on his left was, he said, his nephew Roger de Kyme and the boy his son Arthur, while the red-haired individual was a cousin, Alan de Kyme. “Bardolf and de Rollos you will already know,” he added, lifting his cup in a salutary gesture in their direction.
He looked up at Bascot. “I hope you have come to tell me that proof has been found of my wife’s guilt. Even now, the son of mine that she killed lies in my chapel awaiting burial. That bitch, to take from me the one thing above all that I desire. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a witness to Sybil’s perfidy, or that of her hellhound son. They are a devilish pair, as anyone here will tell you.”
Roger de Kyme and his son both nodded in agreement, as did Alan de Kyme. Hugh Bardolf held himself aloof from committal to the baron’s opinion, keeping his expression pleasant but devoid of emotion while de Rollos stared into his wine cup.
“I have found no proof of their complicity as yet,” Bascot replied carefully. “It seems likely, however, that Hugo was on the Torksey road when he and his wife were detracted from their journey, possibly near your manor.”
De Kyme banged his cup down on the carved wooden arm of his chair, spilling wine as he did so. “I knew it, by God. The boy was nearly here when that she-devil got hold of him. Ah, did ever a man have such misfortune as I? Once here he would have been safe, I would have seen to that. That bitch . . .”
Here de Kyme trailed off as self-pity and wine fumes robbed him of speech. His nephew, Roger, spoke to him consolingly. “Do not distress yourself, Uncle. Soon you will be free of her, and Conal. Time enough then to think of the future.”
“Roger is right, Philip,” Hugh Bardolf drawled. “You have heirs aplenty—two right here in the persons of Roger and Alan. Both of them have sons, although Alan’s boy is young still. And you are not old, man. You may yet have one of your own. If you marry again.”
As Bardolf spoke Roger swung an angry face in his direction. Bascot remembered that Bardolf was seeking a suitable husband for his daughter, Matilda.
“Whether Sybil and her brat are found guilty or not, it will still be a lengthy business for my uncle to rid himself of his wife,” Roger spat. “He must needs think of his estates. They would be held in wardship by the king if aught should happen to him and there is no heir declared.”
“A deplorable state.” Hugh Bardolf chuckled as he spoke. “But your uncle is in good health yet. He has time aplenty to spawn sons, especially if the new wife is young, and comes from a family known for its fecundity.” Since the size of Bardolf’s brood of children was well known, this was a pointed remark and not taken well by de Kyme’s nephew.
De Rollos looked increasingly uncomfortable as Roger turned his angry face away from Bardolf and took another pull at his wine cup. De Kyme’s cousin, Alan, kept his silence, his pale brown eyes sly and cunning as they darted back and forth from his host to the rest of the company. Roger’s son Arthur looked defiantly ahead of him, hatchet nose high in the air in imitation of his father.
Philip de Kyme looked blearily up at Bascot. “If you haven’t come to tell me you have proof of my wife’s guilt, Templar, then why are you here?”
Tired of the baron’s maudlin attitude and still feeling remnants of his earlier irritation, Bascot answered him with little patience. “I have come to see the letters written by Hugo’s mother. It is possible they will give some hint of how Lady Sybil or Conal could have found out about your illegitimate son’s existence.”
De Kyme nodded drunkenly. “Yes. A common acquaintance here in Lincoln, perhaps. Some merchant the boy was to travel with that had a loose tongue. I will send for Scothern. He has the letters in his safekeeping.”
As a servant was sent scurrying for the
secretarius
, Bardolf gave Bascot a lazy smile. “You are assiduous in your task, Templar. I wish you joy of it.”
“There is no joy in murder, Bardolf,” Bascot said shortly, “and still less for those who profit from the deed.”
The pretence of amiability dropped from Bardolf’s expression as he pushed himself up straighter in the chair, seeking whether the Templar’s answer was directed at himself or not. De Rollos put a hand on his companion’s arm as Bascot’s own hand dropped casually to the sword at his belt. Just then William Scothern appeared and Bardolf, thinking better of testing the strength of the insult that might have been contained in Bascot’s remark, relaxed as the
secretarius
came to stand behind his master’s chair.
“Sir Bascot has come to see the correspondence you exchanged with Hugo’s mother, William,” de Kyme said, his mazed senses momentarily sobered by the imminent clash between one of his guests and the Templar. “Take him to my chamber and show her letters to him.”
Bascot was not loath to leave the group behind him. They reminded him of the vultures that had gathered over the corpses on the plains outside Acre. With the exception, perhaps, of William de Rollos who, as far as Bascot could determine, would have little to gain from the death of de Kyme’s bastard son or the imminent disposal of his wife and stepson. His presence here was puzzling.
Scothern led Bascot to an upper chamber in one of the manor house’s corner turrets. The room was well appointed, with a large bed and bolster covered in good linen and sweet-scented rushes strewn on the floor. The
secretarius
went to a locked coffer standing on the floor against the far wall. Opening it with a key taken from the scrip at his belt, Scothern removed a small number of parchment rolls and placed them on a nearby table. Beside them he laid several sheaves of parchment covered in writing and tapped them with a forefinger.
“These are the copies of the letters that Sir Philip sent to Hugo’s mother, Eleanor. The others are her replies. You will find they are in the order of their dating.”
Bascot motioned to the coffer. “These have been kept locked away all the time Sir Philip was in correspondence with the boy’s mother?”
“They have,” he affirmed. “Only Sir Philip and myself had access to them.” Scothern’s genial freckled face was drawn in lines of tautness and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.
“Is Sir Philip literate?” Bascot asked.
Scothern shook his head. “He can sign his name, and scan the tallies of some of his holdings, but not much more.”
“Then you will have written all of his letters and read the replies for his benefit?” The
secretarius
nodded. “How did your master locate the boy’s mother? It would seem she had been gone many years from Lincoln.”
“Her father was a perfume maker, and Sir Philip knew that he had relations in Maine and also believed that was where she was sent when . . . her condition . . . became obvious. I made enquiries among the merchants of Lincoln and, from the information I garnered, we discovered that it was most likely she was in the town of La Lune. Sir Philip directed that a letter be sent there—to the provost of the town—asking that he make an attempt to locate the lady he was looking for. Not much later we had a reply from a priest—the lady apparently lived in his parish—and Sir Philip sent a letter, written at his direction by myself, for the priest to forward to her.”
“I see.” Bascot picked up one of the scrolls. It was neatly dated on the outside with the inscription of a day in early April. “This is the first one received from her?”