Lady Hilde heard him through without interruption as he told of his difficulties with Agnes, of Gianni finding the scrap of material in the alehouse yard and how he had become convinced that the bodies had been taken there in empty ale barrels and how, through Philip de Kyme’s
secretarius
, William Scothern, the identity of the two strangers had been determined. He also told her of his visit to Isaac and how he was convinced that all three of the victims had been somehow abducted while travelling along the Torksey road. Finally he told her of the attack on Father Anselm and his rather tenuous suspicion that it might somehow be linked to the alehouse murders and of the lies that had been told by the prostitute Gillie and of her subsequent disappearance along with Brunner, the stewe-holder.
As Bascot’s words came to a halt, Hilde picked up her cane and rose from her chair, waving away his offer of assistance and motioning for her maid, who had jumped up to help, to remain where she was. “I think better on my feet, poor creatures that they are. A few paces will suffice to order my mind.”
She trod slowly the short distance to the far end of the room and back, then stopped in front of Bascot. “You have met the nephew, Roger de Kyme?”
“This morning, lady. He had his son, Arthur, with him. There was also a cousin, Alan de Kyme, in the company.”
“A poxy crew, all of them,” Hilde said. “Roger more than most, along with that whey-faced son of his. Alan is little better. They all of them fawn on Philip to gain his favour and he, self-pitying wretch that he is, responds in kind, lapping up their commiserations for his sorrows as though they were sincere. I am sure either Roger or Alan would be more than capable of murder if they foresaw future benefits.”
She thought for a moment, standing motionless. “I believe that Roger is in debt to the Jews. And Alan could be also. They both have good reason for not wishing the promise of a wealthy inheritance to pass to another.”
“And if de Kyme should proclaim one of them his heir—it would be a collateral of enough strength to enable more to be borrowed,” Bascot said, agreeing with her reasoning. He had formed similar opinions himself that morning in de Kyme’s manor house. “Their whereabouts that day must be looked into.”
“Yes,” Hilde agreed, “but it could be they used hired minions. There are many such about Lincoln these days, just as there are in the rest of England.” She shook her head. “The lawful days of King Henry are long past. Since his death first Richard, and now John, have not kept the order that their father did.”
“I do not think underlings were used to commit these murders,” Bascot said thoughtfully. “If I am correct and the victims were taken—either with willingness or by coercion—on the Torksey road, then it must have been by someone who would not arouse the suspicions of the sheriff’s guard. Patrols are carried out regularly, and often. Anyone seeming to be on unlawful business would have been noticed by them and challenged.”
“Unless it was one of their servants, claiming to be on a legitimate errand for their master.”
Bascot shook his head. “Possibly, but secret murder is a dangerous undertaking to entrust to a servant. If caught they could implicate their master and, if successful, such knowledge could be used as a threat to gain preferential treatment.”
He paused for a moment. “There is also one aspect of this murder that has bothered me from the beginning. Why were the bodies taken into Lincoln and left in the alehouse? Surely it would have been far better to have left them in the greenwood. They may or may not have been discovered eventually, but the purpose of eliminating Sir Philip’s heir would have been accomplished. It speaks of a need for them to be found, and found quickly. But, if that is so, then why remove all identification from the corpses?”
Lady Hilde sat down, obviously tired from the long day and her few brief moments of pacing. After ruminating a space she said, “Your questions are the very same ones to which I gave much thought while I was waiting for you. There are two other persons besides Roger and Alan de Kyme who may hope to gain by these deaths. One is obvious, the other not.” She gave Bascot a challenging stare. “The first is Philip de Kyme himself,” she said.
“But it is he who has laid the charge against Conal and Lady Sybil,” Bascot protested.
“Yes. And what better way to rid yourself of an unwanted wife and stepson? Much quicker than trying to dissolve the marriage through a weak claim of consanguinity. Such a process can take years. If he has the prospect of another wife in mind, he might be in haste to formalize the marriage. Lust is a powerful goad, especially to a man who is past his prime.”
“But to kill his own son, illegitimate or not—well, at the very least, is it not a rather drastic method of obtaining freedom from a wife?”
“If the boy actually was his son,” Hilde replied shrewdly. “We have only his word for that, and it was a nebulous identification at best. That may, or may not, be the answer to your second question. From what you tell me, he claimed the boy to be his own through the recognition of a cheap silver brooch. And you yourself helped to confirm it by identifying the origin of the clothing worn by the dead young man and his companion. Is it not an easy matter to obtain some garments made in La Lune, then lure to Lincoln a simple peasant and his wife from some village well away from these parts, promising work or perhaps a small quantity of silver as an inducement? They are then abducted, poisoned and left to be found in a public place. And also stabbed after death. Poison is a woman’s weapon, the sword a man’s. The use of both points to both genders having a hand in the murders. De Kyme conveniently pretends grief, followed by rage, charging his wife and stepson with the slaying. He has accomplished his aim—to free himself of a barren wife and wed another on whom he may beget a son of his own loins.”
Bascot had to admit there was an element of possibility in her conjectures. “The
secretarius
, Scothern, would have to be privy to the matter, if that is what was done.”
“Not necessarily, Templar. You told me the letters were said to have been despatched with a retainer of de Kyme’s, then by ship, entrusted to the captain. The usual way for any missive not of great import. But the letters may never have been sent at all, and the
secretarius
could simply have been told that an answer had been received without actually seeing it arrive. Scothern may have done no more than pen the letters and read the ones that came in answer. He need have known nothing.”
“De Kyme is not literate. Someone else must have written the replies supposed to come from the boy’s mother.”
Lady Hilde shrugged. “Not very difficult to find a clerk in any town hereabouts to write a letter. He would not be interested in the contents, only his fee.”
Bascot pondered for a moment. “It could be as you say. I must find out if the boy that was killed was actually Hugo. If, indeed, such a person as Hugo ever existed.”
“A difficult task, Templar. The lands in Maine are in turmoil at the moment, what with our new king’s continental subjects rebelling at every turn. And did you not say that the last letter claimed that the boy’s mother was intending to embark on a pilgrimage? If the missives were falsified, this is a convenient ploy to cover her absence in La Lune. On the other hand, if the story is true, it is possible she may not be there to confirm or deny the truth of the matter.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, pondering. “Perhaps I can persuade the Templars to help. They have stations in nearly every large town in Christendom. I will ask the local master to send an enquiry on my behalf. To Compostella, if necessary. The Templar resources are large and efficient. If a deception has been carried out as to the boy’s identity, it may be that they will be able to discover it, or even prove that the dead boy was genuinely de Kyme’s son.”
“A slim hope, and one that will take some time to uncover, even with the Order’s help,” Hilde replied.
“You mentioned two suspects, Lady Hilde. Who is the other?”
Hilde took some time to answer. When she did, her response surprised Bascot. “The other is Hugh Bardolf,” she said.
At her companion’s look of disbelief, she added, “You are a newcomer here, Templar. I have known these people a long time. Bardolf is a greedy man, greedy for power. He has a daughter, Matilda, and is touting for a husband for her with all the voracity of a ribbon seller hawking a tray of shoddy goods. She is not an unattractive girl, but spiteful by nature and, rumour has it, not above giving her favours lightly. But her father is an ambitious man. Whether he is aware of his daughter’s unchaste behaviour I do not know, but even if he is, it would not deter him. He already has much land and wants more. De Kyme wants an heir and Matilda needs a husband. Bardolf would see such a match as a gift from God. And I do not think he would be averse to enlisting the devil’s aid in helping him to accomplish it.”
“It seems an extreme length to go to on the hope of a liaison that could only be a tenuous promise at best,” Bascot remarked.
“Ah, but is it, Templar? Has the fair Matilda already warmed de Kyme in his bed? That she is rumoured to have done the same with others might suggest that she has. And she is young, and of a good family, if not as high-placed as his own. She would be an ideal wife for de Kyme in her father’s eyes and I am sure Bardolf could be persuasive enough to make Philip see it that way. But he would need to be free of Sybil first.”
Bascot leaned back and drained the final dregs of wine in his cup. “You have given me much to think of, lady. And there is much that must be done, if I am to ascertain the whereabouts of all these people on the day the murders were committed.”
“If you are agreeable, Templar, I would like to aid you in this matter. I am not as mobile as you are, even with your injured leg, but I am privy to one place that you are not. The solar. Women love to prattle and so do their servants. Between myself and Freyda there”—she gestured to the maidservant—“we could glean much from any tongues that can be encouraged to wag.”
Bascot laughed despite himself. He could not imagine Lady Hilde engaging in cosy idle conversation with anyone. She was too intimidating. The old woman laughed with him. “I know your thoughts, Templar, but I can be amiable—if I wish. Will you accept my offer?”
Bascot told her he would and, as he bid her goodnight, found himself in a more hopeful frame of mind than he had been since the whole devil’s brew had begun.
Twenty
T
HE TEMPLAR LINCOLN HEADQUARTERS, OR PRECEPTORY, was situated in an enclave just north of Eastgate, near the Priory of All Saints. Behind a high wall with a stout gate lay a chapel, dormitory, stable, storehouse, armoury and a square patch of ground used for exercise. Early the next morning Bascot presented himself at the gate and, after being admitted with a friendly wave by the guard on duty, went through to the outer yard. The familiar stench of horse dung and human sweat gave him a wrench of nostalgia and took him back to the day he had taken his vows to join the Order. How happy he had been then, looking forward to the joy of using his strength and skill to fight for Christ while at the same time satisfying his own longing for the inner peace of a monk’s life. Disillusionment had been slow to come, but come it had, already setting in before he had been captured by the Saracens. Now he wished he could return to that time of his youth and feel again the sweet savour of promise.
On the practice ground two Templar men-at-arms, in long tunics of brown, were putting a pair of new recruits through a drill with short sword and shield under the watchful eye of a black-robed serjeant. Two Templar knights, clad in the white surcoats that denoted their higher rank, stood watching. Of the third rank of the Order, that of chaplain, identified by tunics of green, only one was to be seen, hurrying towards the round stone building that was the chapel, glancing as he went at the top layer of a sheaf of parchment held between his gloved hands. Even though the day was hot, the gloves could never be removed, except to don a clean replacement, for the hands of the priests must always be kept in a pristine condition to serve Holy Communion.
From the stables came the shrill sound of a horse neighing in anger, followed by the thud of shod hooves hitting solid timber. Bascot went towards the sound. He was looking for the officer in charge, the preceptor, and if he was to find him anywhere it would be in the stable.
At the end of a row of horse stalls, illuminated dimly in the gloom, stood a group of men. Two were grooms, holding with difficulty the reins of a wild-eyed grey stallion. A Templar serjeant was trying to get a saddle on the animal’s back, dodging to and fro in an effort to escape flying hooves and bared teeth. Watching the spectacle and, from the grin on his face, enjoying it mightily, was the preceptor, Everard d’Arderon.
“Come on, Hamo, get that saddle on his back,” he yelled to the red-faced serjeant. “Not going to let a horse win a battle, are you? Get on with it, man.”
The serjeant, as angry as the horse now, wrenched the reins from the frantic clutch of the groom and pulled the animal’s head down cruelly, forcing it onto its forelegs. As the stallion let out his breath in a whuff of defeat, the serjeant threw the saddle on its back, gave his captive a savage kick in the testicles and pulled the straps into position, securing them before the horse could recover. Handing the reins to one of the grooms, he stepped back and watched with a satisfied smile as the stallion regained its feet and stood on wobbly legs, breathing hard.
“Well done, Hamo,” d’Arderon said. “That will be a good piece of horseflesh once it’s trained to use its temper against the infidel and not honest Christians.”
Noticing Bascot’s arrival, he gave a nod of greeting and walked over to where he stood. “Come to get a supply of
candi
, have you?” he asked with a grin. “I’ve just received a new batch, covered in marchpane. Come into the storehouse and I’ll let you sample a piece.”