Without waiting for Bascot’s reply, the preceptor walked out of the stable and into the bright sunshine of the yard, not stopping until he reached the long low building that housed supplies of all sorts of commodities, from sacks of grain to piles of well-seasoned timber. The odours here were sweet, a pungent mixture of resin, spices and beeswax. As the preceptor rummaged about amongst a pile of hide-bound bundles, Bascot rested his aching leg by sitting on a tun of wine and watched, with something like affection, the man who had, under orders from the Templar Master in London, placed him in the household of Nicolaa de la Haye nearly a year before.
D’Arderon had been Lincoln’s preceptor for almost three years, ever since a bout of tertian fever in the Holy Land had laid him so low it was thought he would not recover. To save him from the danger of a further infection, he had been sent back to England and given the preceptor-ship of Lincoln. Under his care was the recruiting of new postulants and the supervision of their instruction in the rules of the Order; maintaining and collecting the revenues from properties given as gifts to the Templars in the Lincoln area; and filling the many requisitions for supplies such as weapons, armour and timber to be sent to the Holy Land for the Order’s use in the war against the infidel. The preceptor also, on occasion, acted as safe-keeper of monies that Lincoln’s citizens wished to be sent abroad, perhaps in payment of a debt or as a gift to a member of their family. D’Arderon could, too, if he deemed it advisable, advance monies to individuals outside the Order for their own purposes. To avoid the stigma of usury, these loans were given without interest, but the amount stipulated under the terms of the loan was always a little more than the actual amount borrowed, in order to cover the cost of the Templar’s handling of the arrangement.
Although the burden of all these matters was weighty, d’Arderon was a man of cheerful humour, with his three-score years sitting lightly on shoulders still unbowed and muscular, and he had a sincere liking for the young Templar knight who had arrived in Lincoln wounded in body and sore in heart.
“Here they are, de Marins,” he said, straightening up and waving aloft a small leather sack. “These new ones with the marchpane are extra sweet—should be even more to your liking than the plain kind.”
D’Arderon accompanied his offer with a wink of conspiracy. Although monks, Templars, unlike their nonmilitary counterparts, were fed well in order to keep up their strength for battle. But
candi
was not a part of their regular diet and was imported to England primarily for sale to the public, the proceeds of which went into the Templar coffers. Even so, it was not uncommon for one of the knights, or even a serjeant, to have a small leather sack filled with the sweets put aside for his own use. Although Bascot was not strictly within the Order at the moment, d’Arderon still kept a supply for him.
Bascot thanked him and popped one of the sweets into his mouth, relishing the taste. D’Arderon gave him an assessing glance as he did so and said, “You look in better fettle than when you first arrived. Life in the castle agrees with you, does it?”
Bascot shrugged. “I am treated well. There are meaner posts.”
“And the boy—your waif?”
“He thrives. Like many poor urchins, he needed only food and shelter.”
“And care,” added d’Arderon shrewdly, “which you have given him.”
“He has become a good servant,” Bascot protested weakly.
“Aye. And who would not, with as gentle a master as you?” D’Arderon held up his hand to forestall more objections. “I will not repeat my assurances that if you return to our ranks we will ensure that the boy is well cared for. You have heard them often enough from others beside me.”
He changed the subject deftly. “I hear you are investigating a case of murder on Lady Nicolaa’s behalf. How goes it?”
Bascot gave the preceptor a straight answer. “Not well. That is why I have come here today, to ask the help of the Order.”
“And I thought you came just for the
candi
,” d’Arderon jested, taking one himself and crunching it between teeth still strong and white. “Tell me your problem, and how we may be of assistance. If it does not detract from Christ’s cause, I will do my best to aid you.”
Bascot repeated the gist of his conversation with Hilde the night before, and her suspicions that the identification of the murdered young couple may have been false. “If de Kyme did have a son by his former paramour, then it is vital that we discover whether the boy lived in La Lune and whether he did, in fact, journey to England with his wife. If there was no son, or if he is still alive and well, then . . .”
“De Kyme is behind the plotting and the murders,” d’Arderon finished.
“Or he was gulled into thinking he had an heir who was then killed by his wife and stepson.” Bascot stopped short. There were so many possibilities to the situation that he resisted enumerating them. He was sure only that finding out if the dead pair were who they were said to be was the logical place to begin and try to fit the pieces of the riddle together.
D’Arderon paced back and forth a bit, deliberating aloud as he did so. “I think I can help you. As you know, we have riders with despatches leaving every day for London, and often farther afield. As it happens, I have a missive to send to Maine this very day, to Le Mans, and I thought to send a couple of new recruits who need the edges taken off them. A trip through the turmoil over there will steady them up nicely. I’ll add a message to the preceptor in Le Mans. Tell him to make enquiries about the boy with all speed and send his findings back to me immediately. Shouldn’t take too long, twelve days at most, ten if I tell ’em that’s how quick I want it done. Do the new lads good to feel a whip at their backs.”
At Bascot’s questioning look he added, “These recruits are for the men-at-arms rank. Got a feeling they were outlaws and joined up before Sheriff Camville could catch up with them. They’re freeborn, of course, couldn’t take them otherwise, but if they’ve been spending the last few months in the greenwood, the prospect of a comfortable straw pallet and free food would look good to them, never mind that they’ll be clothed and armed into the bargain. They have yet to take their final vows and I want to test their mettle and their commitment before they do. One thing to enjoy the benefits of the Order, quite another to put up with the discomfort of hours in the saddle with the possibility of an ambush and an arrow in your neck all the while—and you know well that’s what they’ll face in the Holy Land. Saracens behind every sand dune. And just to ensure they don’t run off once they’re free of Lincoln I’ll send Hamo with them. He’d slit a Christian throat just as soon as a Saracen’s if he thought they were betraying the Order. I’ll send your enquiry along with him.”
“I appreciate your assistance,” Bascot said, rising.
D’Arderon threw an arm affectionately about his shoulders. “We are all brothers in Christ, de Marins. And brother should help brother. Remember that when you finally make your decision whether to stay in the Order or leave it. You will find no such steadfastness in the world outside.”
“I am aware of it, preceptor. And will not forget your kindness.”
Bascot felt a tiny sliver of regret as he crossed the yard and departed through the gate. A part of him wanted to stay within the confines of the walls, to join d’Arderon and the Templar brothers at their communal meal in the refectory and engage in the camaraderie that would prevail afterwards. Then he thought of Gianni. Despite the preceptor’s assurance that the boy would be looked after if Bascot should return to the Templar ranks, he knew that the young Sicilian, however well treated, would feel lost and betrayed if he left him. No, it was not a decision he could yet make. First he would complete his enquiry into the alehouse murders. Time enough afterwards to put his mind to the future.
After he left the preceptory, Bascot walked the long distance through the town and down to the shop of the cobbler to find out if his boots were ready. By the time he had reached the shop, and had been admitted by the shoemaker’s wife, he was more than ready to take a seat on the same chair he had sat on before and which was, again, quickly proffered for him.
The shoemaker bobbed in deference, then brought from his workbench a pair of fine leather boots, highly polished, and knelt in front of Bascot to remove his old ones and slip the new pair on. They were soft and supple, encasing his feet snugly, but without strain. Bascot could feel, just slightly, the soft pads that had been inserted into the left boot and which forced a gentle pressure on his injured ankle.
“If it will please you to stand, Sir Templar, you will find a new comfort in your limb,” the cobbler said.
Bascot did so and, as he came to his feet, felt surprise. Aside from a slight strangeness that the feel of the pads gave, there was no other sensation in his ankle. The pain had gone.
“You have the touch of an angel in your hands,” he told the shoemaker. “Never since I sustained the injury have I been without a constant ache in that ankle.”
The cobbler looked gratified but gave him a warning. “You will still find it there if you give your leg too much strain, sir,” he said. “With normal walking or riding, the boot will help. Alas, it will not make your bones whole again.”
“The boots are well worth your price,” Bascot told him warmly. “Had I known of your skill, I would have become a patron when first I came to Lincoln. I would have been saved many hours of anguish.”
The shoemaker’s son, who had ambled in behind his mother to see the fitting of the new boots, enjoyed the compliment to his father. “Da’s helped many a man that’s had an injury, haven’t you, Da?” he said. “Got a rare touch, he has, so everyone says.”
“Hush, boy,” the cobbler said with a slight impatience. “It is a sin to boast.”
“I’m sayin’ nowt but truth, and well you knows it,” the boy replied. “And truth’s not a sin, is it, sir?” He asked the question of Bascot, showing his long equine teeth in a grimace that passed for a smile.
“No, it is not,” Bascot assured him. “And it is certainly true that your father has a talent for helping the maimed.”
“He makes covers for them that has lost a hand, too,” the cobbler’s son went on, “to keep the arm from injury. And once he fitted a brace on a man that had broken his shoulder, so he could stand straight.” The boy giggled. “He even makes hair shirts for priests sometimes, so that their misery fits them comfortably.”
“That’s enough, boy,” the cobbler said sternly. “My aids are between me and my customers, not to be spoken of lightly by the likes of you. Be careful that God, for your impertinence, does not strike you with some affliction my skill cannot help.”
The threat subdued the boy and he stopped speaking, hanging his head in a sullen manner. Bascot, however, was interested in what he had said before he had been chastened into silence.
“Is it true that you have fitted priests with hair shirts, shoemaker?” he asked.
“Aye, one or two. Men’s chests and shoulders come in all sizes, just like feet. It would not be proper for the hair shirt to be seen, since its exposure would defeat the spirit of humility in which it is worn. So I make them to fit snug under a priest’s vestments.”
Bascot acknowledged the sentiment, then said, “There was a priest in town that was attacked with a dagger and almost killed only a few short days ago. Father Anselm. Do you know him?”
“Aye, I do,” was the reply.
“He was wearing a hair shirt when he was attacked. It is thought the shirt saved him from death. Was it one of yours?”
“Since you already know of its existence, it cannot be wrong of me to tell you about it. Yes, I made it for Father Anselm. Just a week before the fair began. And I thank God that I did so, for if it helped to deflect the dagger that struck him, then it was God’s hand that guided mine in the making.”
Bascot took a deep breath. Here was the possibility of more information, connected perhaps not only with the attack on the priest, but also with the murders. But he had to be careful how he asked for it. The shoemaker was a simple man, honest and truthful—and frightened of committing a sin. “Father Anselm is near death. The monks at the priory fear that he will leave this world without regaining consciousness and never be able to tell who it was that assaulted him. A person that would strike a priest must be caught. The crime is repugnant and calls out for punishment. If you know of anyone that might have wanted to harm the priest . . .”
“He spoke no word to me of enemies,” the cobbler replied. “Indeed, he spoke little at all when he was here.”
“You have no knowledge, then, of the reason he wanted the shirt?” Bascot had tried to avoid the direct question, but could find no way around it.
The cobbler looked at him with a shocked expression. “No, sir, I do not. It would not have been fitting for him to tell of it to any except his confessor.”
The shoemaker’s son burst out in a new fit of giggles. “ ’Twas for lechery, Da. Everyone knows that, even if you don’t . . .”
“Silence!” The shoemaker rose to his full height, which was still a good half-head shorter than his son. His rage, however, made him seem taller. “Hold your tongue unless you can find a better use for it than to slander a priest. Go! Go out of my sight, and beg God for forgiveness.”
The boy slunk out and the cobbler turned to Bascot with an apologetic air. “I am sorry, sir. The boy forgets himself, and also that you, too, are a man who has sworn himself to God’s service. I beg your pardon for his behaviour.”
Bascot made light of the boy’s remark. “I am not so old that I forget on what a young lad’s mind constantly dwells. Were we not all once enthralled with the tumbling of a lass and could think of nothing else?”
The shoemaker shook his head. “What you say is true, but in my youth I would not have dared to speak so in front of my elders. The young today have no thought for any but themselves. It is a sad statement, but a true one.”