Bascot had thanked him and ridden slowly back to the castle, oblivious to the crowds in the town and conscious only on the periphery of his thoughts that his new boots made the effort of sitting in the saddle much easier. By the time he got back to the hall, tables were being set up for the evening meal and Gianni was waiting for him anxiously at the east gate instead of in his usual place among the dogs. Ernulf was nearby, talking to one of his men.
“The lad would not leave the gate, even when I tried to tempt him with something to eat,” he told Bascot with a smile. “I reckon he thought you would be struck with the lepers’ disease the moment you entered the hospice and be instantly confined there, never to return.”
Bascot told the serjeant that he had discovered nothing helpful and asked if it had been confirmed that Lady Sybil and Conal had spent all of the evening and the night before within the castle walls.
“It has,” Ernulf said with some satisfaction. “Conal kept company with Richard Camville until late, and then they both retired to the same chamber together, along with another male guest who is staying here. Conal’s mother went to the room she shares with Lady Petronille and, unless she be a wraith that can vanish through walls, never left it ’til the morning. Because the chamber is cramped, Lady Petronille’s maid had a pallet across the door. If anyone had left the chamber in the night, she would have been woken.”
“Then we know that they, personally, are innocent of Brunner’s death.”
“It would seem so,” Ernulf replied.
Alan de Kyme sprawled in a chair by an unlit hearth in his small manor house, drinking a cup of weak ale, his foxy face set in concentration. His wife sat nearby, repairing a rent in one of her husband’s old tunics while keeping a watchful eye on their three children, who were playing with a ball on the other side of the room.
“You’ve heard that the Templar has evidence that neither Sybil nor Conal were involved in this latest crime,” Alan said to his wife.
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t involved in the other one,” his wife responded shortly. She was like her husband in features, with a similar pointed nose and sharp eyes, but instead of the flaming red hair that he possessed, hers was dark, and her skin was sallow. She also had a less humorous temperament than her husband.
“The Templar believes it does. He thinks the murders are all connected—de Kyme’s son, the priest and the stewe-holder.”
“If he knows so much, why doesn’t he know who did it?” his wife retorted sourly.
Alan de Kyme laid his finger alongside his nose in an artful manner. “Knowing is one thing, proving is another.”
His wife’s head came up sharply. “Do you think he does know, then?”
Alan shook his head gently. “I don’t think so. But he’s determined, I’ll say that for him. If he doesn’t find out it won’t be for want of trying.”
Alan’s wife gave him a searching look from under her dark brows. “Do you know who it was, husband?”
“I could make a guess, if I had to,” he replied in an offhand manner.
“And who would it be, if you were to guess?” she enquired, her needle still, poised in midair as she waited for his answer.
“No, wife, not even to you will I name anyone. Could be dangerous. Look what happened to the priest and the stewe-holder. They knew who it was, like as not, and they were murdered because of that knowledge.”
His wife looked thoughtful, then bent her head to her sewing once again, and kept her head lowered as she asked softly, “Alan, it wasn’t you, was it?”
“Don’t ask daft questions,” her husband replied, the words sharp but his tone gentle. “I’ve enough problems without adding to them by skulking about murdering my cousin’s bastard.”
If his wife noticed that he had not given a direct answer to her question, she did not remark on it. Instead she turned the conversation to the problems he had mentioned. Holding up the tunic she was mending, she said, “This repair is all but done, Alan, but the fabric is overworn. I will need some cloth if I am to make you a new one, and also some material to sew clothes for the children. They will soon run naked without.”
“I know, woman, I know,” Alan said, a little testily. “If only that damned Jew had come here first before he got himself murdered we could have had the money he was bringing and denied receiving it to Isaac. It wasn’t much, but with the loan the Jew will give us anew it would have got us not only some timber for the mill but a new ram as well as your lengths of cloth.”
His wife sighed. “Are you sure you shouldn’t ask Philip for the money instead, Alan?”
“Not the right time to ask,” her husband said decidedly. “My cousin is awash with grief for a bastard son he never even laid eyes on. He’s spent more on the trappings for laying that Hugo and his wife out in his chapel than he’d lend me in a score of years, the parsimonious wine-sop. Beeswax candles at the end of each bier, and not just one, mind you, but three. And the best of silk for the palls. No, I’ll repair the mill with the money Isaac lends us, as we’d planned, and we’ll have to hope for a good harvest this year for the rest.”
“Perhaps Philip will make you his heir once his bastard’s been buried,” his wife opined hopefully.
“Not if Roger has his way, he won’t,” Alan said with a sudden grin. “Every time he goes to visit his uncle he brings that damned Arthur with him to dangle under Philip’s nose. He doesn’t realise Philip is usually too wine mazed to even notice the boy. Or Roger’s fawning.”
Alan held out his cup for his wife to refill. “And if you think we’re badly off, you should see the condition of Roger’s estate. The grain-stores are falling down, half his sheep have died from lack of care and I swear his stables haven’t been mucked out for a month.”
“Is he in debt to the Jews as well?” his wife asked.
“He is, and for more than the piddling amount I’m borrowing. If he doesn’t come up with a payment on the interest soon, I think they’ll be applying to the bailiff for redress.”
“But he has that fine house in town,” his wife protested.
“How can he pay the upkeep on that if he is so far in debt?”
“I doubt he’ll have it much longer if he doesn’t find some way out of his troubles,” Alan retorted.
His wife’s face glimmered with resentment. “One solution would be for him to be named Philip’s heir, wouldn’t it?”
“So it would, wife, so it would. And it would be a way out of our problems if I was named instead.”
Hilde was sitting in Nicolaa’s solar, in company with Sybil and her attendant, Isobel. They were in a far corner of the room, well away from the huge fireplace, their only light a dim glow from the closest casement. At the other end of the chamber were a group of ladies, among them Nicolaa’s sisters, Petronille and Ermingard. Most of the women were engaged in some pastime, embroidering or reading, a few others were gossiping and enjoying tidbits from trays of honeyed fruit. Two of the younger women were playing catch with a soft ball. Petronille was one of those sitting idly, watching her sister sort out the colours of a small box of embroidery thread. Ermingard had seemed better these last two days, and was bent intently to her task. Hilde noticed with a passing thought that she didn’t seem disturbed in handling a skein of red wool, placing it on her lap with as much unconcern as she did those of blue or green.
“It is fortunate that the Templar has proved that neither I nor Conal could have been involved in the killing of that stewe-keeper,” Sybil was saying. “It will take some weight out of the charge Philip has brought against us.”
“Your husband can still claim you were responsible, and used a hired assailant to achieve your aim,” Hilde replied.
Sybil leaned forward towards Hilde. “Yes, but at least we can prove that in this one death, neither of us was directly involved. And, as Nicolaa pointed out, all these deaths must be connected. To be cleared of one helps to clear us of the others.”
Hilde made no response. She had little affection for Sybil, the only redeeming factor in her favour being that she had been Leif’s wife and was Conal’s mother. Hilde considered her a cold woman, although her fair beauty had been attractive when she was young, and was still, to a certain degree. Mentally Hilde dismissed the thought. Sybil was a Dane after all, and she was sister to Magnus and Ailwin. What else could one expect with such a bloodline?
She glanced at Sybil’s attendant, Isobel, who was sitting with an open Psalter in her hands, her eyes downcast as she read. Now there, Hilde thought, was a completely different type of beauty to Sybil’s. Warm colouring, rounded flesh, eyes the glowing colour of amber beads, all suggesting a passion that she either chose not to display or did not have. But if there was one thing that Hilde had learned in her long life it was that the appearance of a thing or person was often at variance with its nature. Her eyes flicked back to Sybil. Not for the first time she wondered if Conal’s mother had been, after all, involved in the deaths of de Kyme’s bastard and his wife. Conal had sworn to her that he was not and Hilde believed him, but Sybil had only denied the charge dismissively in her cool fashion. Was she involved with a man other than her husband, perhaps, and had persuaded her lover to remove the threat to her son’s inheritance? Had she even helped him? After all, she had no one to account for her presence on the day the murders had been carried out.
On impulse, Hilde asked her great-niece-by-marriage a question. “Why have you stayed with Philip all these years, Sybil? No one would have blamed you if you had gone into a nunnery to escape a marriage that has gone more than sour.”
Sybil gave her a glacial stare from her pale eyes. “If I had done as you suggest I would have given up any claim to the dower I brought with me. I could not do that. It is for Conal.”
And Conal doesn’t want it, Hilde thought. It was not your son you stayed for, madam, but yourself. Avarice is a strong trait in your family. You are just as grasping as your brothers, if more pleasant to look at.
Aloud, she said, “I have never been married, thanks be to God. But if I had been I do not think I could have found the fortitude to bed a man that held as much dislike for me as Philip seems to feel for you.”
Sybil turned her gaze towards the women at the other end of the chamber. They were too far away to hear any of the conversation, but she lowered her voice a little as she said, “For all he rants that I have never given him a son, there have been few opportunities these last years to conceive one. In fact, there have been none at all since Conal was a young boy.”
The statement didn’t surprise Hilde. If the rumours about Philip de Kyme’s excessive drinking were true, he must seldom be capable at the end of the day of bedding a woman. Especially a woman he appeared to have disliked from the very beginning of their marriage. Forcing her voice to sound jocular, Hilde remarked, “Then you might as well be in a nunnery. Many women in your situation would have taken a lover. There must be handsome young squires and sturdy grooms aplenty in a retinue the size of de Kyme’s.”
As Hilde spoke Isobel’s eyes darted up from her book and looked with speculation at her mistress. Hilde wondered if her words had struck on a truth. But Sybil answered in a detached manner and the girl’s eyes returned to her Psalter.
“I have been content alone,” Sybil responded. “Were it not for the lack of a child, it would suit me very well.”
“And Philip—is he chaste?”
“If he has a leman, I have not heard of her. But, truth to tell, I have never taken much trouble to find out. If he has one, he obviously hasn’t sired a son on her, for I have no doubt if it had been so he would have boasted of the feat to all of Lincoln. And there would have been no need to send for Hugo.”
Again Isobel’s eyes gave a covert flicker in the direction of her mistress before returning to the written pages of her Psalter. Some emotion had again been quickly masked. Was it speculative, as Hilde had first thought, or was there something else—contempt, perhaps, with maybe a trace of fear? Hilde nodded absently in agreement with what Sybil had said and turned her attention to the girl. “You are assiduous in your reading, Isobel. Do you not wish to indulge in a game, perhaps, like those two girls over there?” She nodded to the pair tossing a ball to and fro. “I am sure your mistress will excuse you if you wish to.”
As Sybil started to give her assent, Isobel shook her head. “Thank you, lady, but no. I will gladly absent myself if you want to have private speech, but I have not a nature for playing games.”
Sybil laughed. “I have exhorted her many times to entertain herself with something frivolous, Hilde. But she always declines, attending Mass twice as often as I or making herself busy with some other duty. It was with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded her to enjoy the fair that day I was so ill in Roger’s house. As it turned out, I wish now that she had stayed by me. Her witness to my sickness would have proved my innocence in this whole affair of murder.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Hilde responded absently, keeping her attention on Isobel. “Your diligence commends you, girl.”
With a glance from her amber eyes Isobel thanked her for the compliment. Hilde studied her, remembering the looks the girl had flashed earlier at her mistress. It had been akin to panic, Hilde was sure. Did the maid know something about Sybil’s habits that might prove incriminating, Hilde wondered? She resolved to get the girl alone as soon as she could and make an attempt to find out if a lover had been warming Sybil’s empty bed.
Philip de Kyme stood in the small chapel that abutted his manor house and stared down at the spot where he had buried Hugo and his wife. A slab of expensive marble marked the place near the head of the nave, and it would be suitably inscribed by a skilled mason in a day or two. At the baron’s side stood William Scothern, head bowed and hands clasped as he waited for his master to finish the prayer he was murmuring.