With a smile she disappeared down the track, the servant following behind. It was an old game between her and her husband. She bought his complaisance by pandering to his taste for the hunt and his disinclination to attend to the details of running the shrievalty and castle. In return she retained the power in her own hands, managing the garrison and Haye lands as her father had done before her. It suited them both.
Two
L
INCOLN CASTLE STANDS HIGH ON THE SUMMIT OF A hill, sharing the height with the Minster and cathedral. Bisecting the area between the castle on the western side and the Minster on the east runs the old Roman road of Ermine Street which continues down the precipitous southern slope of the hill and converges at its base with the River Witham. On either side of this main street and below the confines of the castle and Minster lies the town, stretching out on either side like the outer edges of a leaf from the main stem. All of this area—castle, Minster and town—are encircled by a stout stone wall with an additional parapet encasing the top of the hill which can be sealed off from the lower reaches in case of attack. Within the large bailey of the castle, beside barracks, stable, chapel, smith and store-houses, are two keeps, one newly built and an older one which, although showing signs of disrepair, is still sound enough to house the armoury and a few sleeping chambers.
When one of the town watchmen brought Ernulf the urgent message from Anselm, the priest of St. Andrew’s, Bascot de Marins was breaking his fast in the hall of the new keep. De Marins was a Templar, a member of the religious military order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and Temple of Solomon. He had arrived in Lincoln a few months before, in the dead of winter, clad in the white surcoat of a Templar, with the blood red cross of Christ emblazoned on its breast. He had been emaciated and weary, his only companion a young Italian boy, Gianni, riding pillion behind him. The boy, who was a mute, had looked in no better state than his master, for he was thin and shivering in the cold of a climate with which he was unfamiliar.
After a brief conference with Nicolaa de la Haye, the Templar had been given a room to himself in the old keep, and had not been seen for many days; only the boy appeared to take him his meals and bring back the empty vessels on which the food had been served. The boy, too, had otherwise kept to the chamber, seeming fearful of any who approached, and attempted communication only with the cook. To him, through a series of hand gestures, the boy conveyed the needs of himself and his master and gave his thanks by means of a shy smile and a grateful glance from beneath his mop of brown curls.
No one had been told why the Templar was in Lincoln. Gerard Camville had said in passing that de Marins had been on crusade in the Holy Land with the now-dead King Richard back in ’91, and had been captured by the Saracens during a skirmish near Acre at the end of that year. After eight long years of captivity he had recently escaped. It was obvious that he had been tortured during his incarceration, for he wore a leather patch over the eye socket of his missing right eye and walked with a pronounced limp. When, early one morning, he came into the hall to break his fast after attending Mass in the castle chapel, all eyes had turned his way but, although polite, he had said nothing of his past and seemed disinclined to talk about it. Any question put to him that referred to his ordeal was met with a disarming silence and then a deliberate change of conversation that left no doubt that while he did not wish to give offence, neither did he want to confide.
He was a man of medium height, with skin burned by the sun to the colour of old copper, and hair and beard of dark brown that was prematurely threaded with grey. His one remaining eye was blue, so pale in colour that it was startling in the burnished darkness of his skin, seeming like a piece of ice that the sun had failed to melt. As he began to recover his health, he had taken to practicing his combative skills in the yard, first with a blunted sword against the wooden stake erected for the purpose, and finally with Ernulf in mock battle using both sword and shield. While he seemed to have regained his former weight, his prowess with a sword was hampered by the lameness of his leg and the blindness of one eye. For all that, he still made a formidable opponent for Ernulf, who needed all the tricks he had learned in his many years as a soldier to keep pace with the Templar.
When Ernulf went into the hall that morning seeking someone in authority to accompany him in answering Anselm’s summons, there was little of the castle retinue stirring. A few servants had set out trestle tables and laid them with platters of cold meats and early summer fruits. The night shift of the castle guard were seated at the rear of the hall downing mugs of ale and some cheese before returning to the barracks for a few hours sleep. A couple of clerics and a smattering of Haye personal servants were drinking watered wine and munching on day-old bread while, in a corner, some of the pages were playing a game with a set of polished rabbit bones. Beneath the covered walkway from the kitchen to the hall a pair of serving maids giggled behind their hands. The heat of the last few days had permeated even the thick wall of stones with which the keep was built and the air was stuffy, redolent with the smell of smoke from the torches that lit the inner confines of the room mixed with the scent of the pungent herbs that had been scattered amongst the rushes on the floor. Of the household knights there was little evidence. Those that were not out on the hawking party with the sheriff and Nicolaa de la Haye were still in their beds sleeping off the effects of last night’s wine. Only Bascot sat at the table below the dais that was usually used by those of knight’s rank, with the boy Gianni standing behind him in attendance.
When Ernulf approached and told him what had happened, the Templar readily agreed to accompany him to St. Andrew’s, asking only if the church was a far distance.
“Too far for you to walk,” Ernulf had said baldly, making a pointed reference to Bascot’s crippled leg. “I will order mounts saddled.”
The Templar gave the serjeant a small smile and rose from the table. He had a liking for the grizzled old campaigner and had learned that while he was phlegmatic and brusque, he was not surly. He also treated the men-at-arms under his command with a rough fairness that had won de Marin’s respect.
Gianni was hovering at Bascot’s elbow with an anxious face and didn’t seem at ease until his master spoke to him quietly and told him to wait in the hall for his return. Nodding, the youngster turned and slipped away to a corner of the large chamber, curling up between two of the castle hounds that lay there gnawing on the discarded bones of last night’s meal. His eyes followed the Templar as he and Ernulf left the hall.
Outside the pair made their way to the stables, pausing only for Ernulf to call to two men-at-arms lounging in the doorway of the barracks to accompany them. Once mounted, the small party headed out of the castle ward and, passing under Bailgate, the main gate into the town, they turned down onto Steep Hill. It was an apt name, for the drop it made from the higher ground on which the castle and Minster were situated down into the town itself was deep. The group rode their horses carefully on the cobbled pavement before turning off onto Danesgate, a side street which led off in an arc towards the east before swooping still farther down the hill to Claxledgate. They passed a few early risers amongst the townspeople, but otherwise the streets were empty and it was not too many minutes until they were in front of the church of St. Andrew. At the mouth of a small side street was an alehouse, the sign of an ale-stake hanging over the doorway. Beside the sign was bunched a sheaf of greenery, the usual signal to let customers know a new brew was ready for consumption.
“The watchman told me that the alewife discovered the bodies earlier this morning,” Ernulf said to Bascot as they dismounted. “Luckily she went running straight to the priest at St. Andrew’s instead of screaming her head off in the street. The priest had the presence of mind to calm her, then went to the alehouse and barred the door before he sent to inform Lady Nicolaa. Probably be best if we went to see the alewife and the priest first.”
Bascot nodded and followed the serjeant’s squat figure as he led the way into the church, a small one in comparison with many others in Lincoln, and down into the shadows of a short nave that was lit at one end by a torch flaring in a wall sconce. By its flickering light brightly painted scenes depicting stories from the Bible could be seen on every wall. Across the empty space, below the altar, Bascot could see the priest standing over a woman seated on a low stool. The woman was crouched over her knees, her broad shoulders shaking beneath the plain gown that she wore. Her sobbing was loud and grating. Upon her head was a piece of crumpled linen, looking as though it had been hastily donned for a makeshift covering. As Bascot and Ernulf approached she looked up and, at the sight of them, began to moan and cry in heartrending gulps. She was about fifty years of age with a florid face and pale eyes. Wisps of fine grey hair escaped from the confines of her slightly askew coif. Despite the ravages of time and her present distress, there could be seen the shadow of a once fresh-faced comeliness. Her hands, wringing themselves together in her ample lap, looked strong and capable.
The priest, Anselm, a handsome full-faced man of about forty years of age, looked relieved to see Bascot. He had met the Templar once before, soon after Bascot had arrived in Lincoln, and he murmured a greeting before patting the distraught woman’s shoulder and saying, “Now, Agnes, you must compose yourself. Sir Bascot has come from the castle. You must tell him what you found this morning, just as you told me.”
The alewife gulped and, with an effort, managed to stem her tears. “I came down this morning, from my bed in our chamber above the taproom. I thought it strange that Wat—Walter—that’s my husband—wasn’t in bed beside me, but I thought as maybe he’d got up early like. He does—did—sometimes, if he’d taken too much ale the night before and it made his stomach bad.”
She stopped for a moment and wiped her running nose on the sleeve of her gown. “I went down to the taproom and opened the door, thinking I’d pull him a draft, just to set him right, you know. When I went inside, it was still dark from the shutters being closed and I went . . . I went. . . .”
Here she broke down and began to sob again. Father Anselm took up her tale. “Apparently she went to open the shutters and stumbled over something. As she fell she realised it was a person lying on the floor. She was not alarmed at first. It seems”—and here he looked down with a stern but understanding expression at the woman, who was again hiding her head in her hands—“that there are often patrons who spend the night on the floor after they have had more ale than is good for them. However, when she managed to get the shutters open she found that there were not one but four prone figures on the floor, and that they were not insensible from drink, but dead. One of them was her husband.”
Bascot regarded the nearly incoherent woman and spoke to the priest. “The serjeant and I will go and see for ourselves what is at the alehouse. Please keep Mistress Agnes here until we return.”
Father Anselm, with a resigned sigh, agreed to do as he had been asked. The corners of his mouth turned down in an exasperated grimace as they left him to the difficult duty of trying to console the unfortunate alewife.
Coming outside from the dark interior of the church the light of the sun, which even this early had more heat than was usual, dazzled their eyes. They went across the cobbles to the door of the alehouse, ignoring the stares of a small crowd that had now begun to gather about the horses and men-at-arms, and removed the bar which the priest had placed across it. From the outside it had the appearance of a moderately well-run establishment. The walls had been freshly limed and the shutters were clean and in good repair. The sign above the lintel had been recently repainted. But as Bascot pushed the door open the smell of heat and death, wrenchingly familiar from the time of his captivity, rushed out to meet him. No amount of cleanliness or industry could defeat that stench.
Ernulf told the two men-at-arms to remain where they were, then he and Bascot went in, finding themselves standing on a small threshold just inside the door. To the right was the entrance to the taproom, in front of them a passage with what appeared to be an open door leading outside at its end, and to their left a flight of narrow stairs presumably giving access to the floor above. Both men drew their swords and, moving swiftly, made a thorough search of the premises. They found no sign of any intruder.
Returning to the taproom they stepped inside, the death smell more pungent here. The interior was dim, lit only by the glare of the sun glancing off the wall of the building opposite through the one open casement which the alewife had unshuttered. The bodies lay like piles of unwashed linen on the floor and Ernulf stepped around them to throw open the other casement. The scuttling of rats could be heard, and the insistent drone of flies.
The task was unpleasant, but necessary, and one by one Ernulf and Bascot went to each body and examined it. There were three men and a woman. One of the men was elderly, and wore the long beard of a Jew. Nearest to the door, he was half-propped against a three-legged stool. At the front of his gown was a long rent through which the marks of a dagger thrust could be seen just below his heart; a thin trickle of blood mixed with the grey hairs on his chest. The exposed tissue had a drained look and was tinged a bluish white. His face was the colour of clay, the mouth hanging slackly and the lids of his eyes not quite closed. His hands lay one on each side of his body, loosely, palms up. The left one bore evidence that the rats had begun to feed.
The body in the far corner was that of a young man, plainly dressed in sturdy clothes. He was fair of hair and face with a broad sprinkle of freckles across his nose. A crease of skin at the side of his neck showed the scar of an old injury, possibly a burn. This victim had been stabbed from behind and he was slumped forward, as though he had obligingly offered his back to his attacker. Again, there was only a small stream of dried blood from the wound on the back of his jerkin.