Bascot changed the subject, paying the cobbler for the boots and complimenting him once again on their making. As he left the shop he saw the shoemaker’s son standing over to one side, still punching holes in a piece of leather, but with anger this time. Bascot walked over to him.
“Did another speak of Father Anselm being lustful, or is it only your own imagination at work?” he said to the boy harshly.
Now fear replaced resentment in the boy’s eyes. His answer came out in a rush. “ ’Tis the truth, I swear it. Da will not listen to what he says is evil gossip, but a friend of mine told me his sister complained to him of the priest, said that Father Anselm was always touching her when he got the chance. And not only her, but some of her friends. Accidentally brush their titties, or stand so close behind they could feel his member pushing into their bottoms, that sort of thing. We reckon that’s why he got the hair shirt, and that it was some angry father or husband that stabbed him, after finding out he had been lecherous with one of their womenfolk.”
The boy looked down at the piece of leather in his hands, now almost in shreds. “I wouldn’t of said it if I hadn’t been sure it was true. Da’s always telling me I’m insolent, but even so I wouldn’t make up a story about a priest, as well he should know.”
“Perhaps you’ll find it easier to get on with your father when you have gained a few more years,” Bascot said, not unkindly. “It may surprise you to find that the older one gets the more we appreciate the wisdom of those we did not think possessed it.”
As Bascot walked back up to the castle, marvelling at how easily his ankle bore his weight, he turned over in his mind what the boy had said. Had the stabbing of Father Anselm been nothing more than an outraged parishioner’s revenge for liberties that no priest should take, or was it somehow involved with the deaths of the people in the alehouse? It seemed the more he delved into these murders, the more lust played a part—that of de Kyme and the paramour of his youth, Hilde’s suggestion that Hugh Bardolf’s daughter was unchaste, and now Father Anselm and his hair shirt. Was there a link between one deadly sin and another?
The midday meal was already in progress when Bascot arrived back at the castle. The fair was almost half-over and its momentum had slowed somewhat, as though taking a breath, readying itself to pick up the pace again as the final days approached. Nicolaa had obtained permission from the king to hold a tournament on the last day and now most of the conversation around the crowded tables was of the merits of one knight or another.
As Gianni came up silently beside him, Bascot pushed his way through to a seat next to the elderly knight he had been in conversation with on the evening that William Scothern had come to tell him of his suspicion of the identities of the slain young couple. As Gianni ran to fetch wine for his master’s cup, the old man glanced at Bascot, wiped his straggly moustache free of gravy, then said, “Found out if it was young Conal who did ’em in yet?”
Bascot shook his head, taking a long draught of wine from his freshly filled cup as the old knight went on. “Look for a woman, that’s what I say. Always a woman mixed up in secret murders. Bound to be. Especially where there’s poison.” He shot a quick look at Bascot from under his bushy eyebrows. “Was poison that killed ’em, wasn’t it?”
“It is believed so. They were stabbed as well, but that was after they were dead.”
“Aye, just as I said. Look for a woman. Though any female would need a man’s help to kill four. Unless she were a witch, of course. Then she’d have demons to help her. I mind me of one time, back in ’76 it was, when the old king was still alive, found six bodies, all laid out in a circle around an oak tree by the king’s hunting lodge. Not a mark on ’em. That was a witch. Found her in a hut nearby. Had her familiar with her. A black dog it was . . .”
Bascot let the old knight’s voice drift out of his consciousness and surveyed the company in the hall. On the dais Lady Nicolaa presided with her husband beside her. Tonight the sheriff was attired more resplendently than Bascot had ever seen him before, in a pale grey tunic with embroidered silver sleeves and a matching cap. In his hand was the familiar cup of wine. On his right sat Conal’s uncles Ailwin and Magnus, while Nicolaa had her sisters Petronille and Ermingard to her left. Farther down the board sat Richard Camville, between Conal and Lady Sybil, and near the end sat Hilde, strategically placed between Hugh Bardolf and his daughter. Bascot could see her smiling and chatting with good humour and saw that her amiability had not passed unnoticed by Ailwin and Magnus, for occasionally one or the other of the brothers would glance down at her with a look of perplexity on their faces.
Gianni piled Bascot’s trencher with the remnants of the stew that was left in the large bowl in the middle of the table. It was mostly root vegetables and gravy, for all of the choice pieces of meat had already been consumed, but it was tasty and Bascot ate it with relish, finding that he was unusually hungry. As he started on the next course—spiced eels simmered in their own juice—he felt a movement beside him and looked up to find Ermingard’s husband, William de Rollos, beside him.
“I have been looking for you, Templar,” de Rollos said, wearing an embarrassed look on his heavy-jowled face. “I thought to tell you that Bardolf did not have my support in his baiting of you yesterday at de Kyme’s manor. Nor do I endorse his sentiments towards Lady Sybil and her son. If they are guilty—then well enough, they should be punished, but that remains yet to be proven. I want no part of that intrigue.”
De Rollos was sitting on Bascot’s sighted side and he could not see if the elderly knight on his right was taking an interest in their conversation or not. However, he felt Gianni at his shoulder, taking an interminably long time to prepare his plate and straighten his wine cup and napkin. He guessed the boy was acting as a shield against his neighbour hearing his conversation with de Rollos and dropped his voice accordingly.
“How did you come to be at de Kyme’s manor?” Bascot asked de Rollos.
“Bardolf asked me to accompany him to one of his properties to see a new destrier he has acquired. As you know, there will be a tournament at the end of the fair. Although I do not intend to ride myself, Ivo has a fancy to try his sword in the melee. Bardolf thought perhaps I might be interested in buying the animal for my son to ride. We stopped at de Kyme’s manor on the way. I would not have gone if I had suspected Bardolf would get embroiled in a drunken argument with de Kyme and his relatives. I thought only to get away from the castle for awhile, and to see if the horseflesh he touted was of worth. Ivo needs a distraction. He is much distressed at his mother’s illness.”
And so are you, thought Bascot, but did not say it. Instead, he asked, “Your wife—she is no better?”
De Rollos shrugged. “She has not been this bad since Ivo was born. Then I thought I would lose her—it was the sight of so much blood at the birth, you see. But these last years she has seemed much calmer. And was still so, until a few nights after we arrived.”
“Did anything happen that might have precipitated her illness?” Bascot felt sorry for the man. Even though it was probable that theirs had been an arranged marriage, the Norman knight seemed genuinely fond of his wife, and cared about her welfare.
“Nothing that we know of,” de Rollos replied. “When we first arrived she seemed glad to be in the company of her sisters again, and behaved as normal. Then, one night—I think it was the night of the day the bodies were discovered—she was found wandering near dawn along one of the passages in the upper keep, crying and tearing at her garments.”
“Is it known how she came to be there?” Bascot asked.
“No. She was sleeping in a chamber with her sister Petronille and their maids. I had bunked down on the floor of the hall, for the keep was crowded and all the available chambers had been kept for the women or those who were elderly. Her maid came to me just as the sun was rising, telling me of her condition. Apparently Ermingard had got up in the night without waking anyone—presumably she wanted to use the privy. Neither Petronille nor the two maids knew how long she had been from her bed, but when one of them woke and found her gone they went searching for her. She was some distance from their chamber, and in the state that I have told you.”
Bascot remembered how distressed de Rollos’ wife had been on the morning she had entered the solar. “And she did not tell you where she had been?”
“No,” de Rollos’ misery was written plain in the downcast set of his jaw. “She just keeps saying over and over about something being the wrong colour, but what that something is, we do not know.” He sighed. “I have no doubt she saw some blood somewhere and it has turned her mind. I will be glad when we are away from here and back in Normandy. Perhaps familiar surroundings will restore her to health.”
Bascot was trying to find an answer that would lift the Norman’s spirits when he felt a hand touch his shoulder and looked up to see Ernulf standing behind him.
“Brunner’s been found,” the serjeant said. “He’s dead.”
“Where?” asked Bascot.
“In an old shack near the leper settlement, just outside town off the road from Pottergate. He’s been stabbed, but not after death like the ones in the alehouse. Blade took him straight in the heart while he was still breathing, damn his evil hide. He deserved to die slowly.”
“And the girl—Gillie?”
“She was with him when he was found. Tied up and bruised, but alive. Frightened near out of her wits, though.”
“Where is she now?”
“I’ve put her in the holding cell at the back of the garrison. Left two of my men with her and a chaplain. Thought you might want to question her.”
“I’ll come straight away,” Bascot replied.
Twenty-one
T
HE CELL INTO WHICH ERNULF HAD PUT GILLIE FOR safekeeping was one that was usually used to keep the occasional drunkard or brawler locked up for the night. It had a dirt floor and little furniture except for a hard pallet and a stool, and a bucket for slops. The one window was fitted with strong bars and the door with a heavy lock. Gillie lay on her side on the pallet, the chaplain kneeling beside her and speaking to her in reassuring tones. The priest looked ill at ease. He was the chaplain that attended the small church of St. Clement just outside the castle’s northwest wall and was more accustomed to giving comfort to the men of the garrison than a young female.
When Bascot entered with Ernulf and Gianni, Gillie sat up and began to entreat the Templar. “I won’t catch the wasting disease, will I, sir? Please tell me I won’t. I didn’t touch any of the lepers, but we were very near to them. Brunner made me go there with him. And he tied me up so I couldn’t get free. Will God punish me for being a harlot and make me a leper? Am I damned, sir? Please, please help me.”
Bascot hunkered down beside her. Her face was scratched and dirty, her hair tangled and laced with wisps of straw and her clothing torn and stained. Her fresh country expression was gone, replaced with the haunting look of fear. He was unused to wailing females but could understand the girl’s terror. Leprosy was a terrible disease and no one knew how to cure it. Once the disease was contracted, the unfortunate victim was given the last rites just as though they were already dead and then they were consigned to live in a community with others that had been stricken in the same way, to stay there until they died. The leper community’s only sustenance came from alms given by the church, and their care was entrusted to a few monks or priests brave enough to enter their dwelling place. They were not allowed to travel away from their hovels without ringing loudly on a bell to warn healthy citizens of their approach and they were forbidden to try and contact any members of their families. For all intents and purposes they were already dead and buried, their only joy of life what little comfort they could find in each other’s company. He could see pity for Gillie etched on the faces of those around him, even young Gianni.
“Now be quiet, Gillie, and listen to me,” Bascot said, searching for words of comfort. “If you didn’t touch any of the lepers’ sores then it is most unlikely you will get their disease. As for God’s punishing you for being a harlot, you know as well as I that if you confess your sins and do penance, Our Lord will forgive you. Especially if you do not return to the life of a bawd.”
Beside him the priest murmured agreement and, after a few minutes, between them they managed to calm the distraught young doxy.
Once she was sitting quietly, albeit still shaken and trembling, Bascot asked how she had come to be where she was found.
“Brunner made me go with him. He said that there was someone who would kill him, and me, too, if we did not hide. We left the stewe-house and went out Pottergate to where the lazar houses are. I was frightened, but he wouldn’t let me go, and we went to this shack. It was a mean place, not as good as my da keeps his pigs in. There was no food, and not even a pallet to lie on. I told him I wasn’t going to stay there, not only ’cause it were so terrible, but because the lepers were right there, just a short distance away. He beat me and then he tied me up.”
“Did he leave the hovel himself?”
“Aye, he did. He had to because we had no food, you see, and he was as hungry as I. And he wanted wine, as well.” She added this last with contempt. “He went out all wrapped up in his cloak. It was just on dusk. He told me he’d be back before long.”
Gillie’s eyes grew dark with fear as she remembered. “But he didn’t come back. It got dark and there weren’t no candles, nor could I have lit them if there had of been, tied up as I was. I tried to cry out, but my throat was parched from not having anything to drink, and I was half-scared anyway that if anyone heard me it would be a leper.” She shuddered. “I ended up just crouching where I was, all bound with rope. Finally I fell asleep and didn’t waken until I heard a noise outside.”