“When Lady Ermingard spoke of the cloak, I reasoned that if Scothern had stabbed the priest and his garments had become drenched in the downpour that fell just moments after he had done so, then Isobel had suspected her brother’s involvement and had been trying to protect him by saying the cloak belonged to someone else. In fact, the cloak was her own.”
He paused as a sobering thought struck him. “It is fortunate that Ermingard never spoke Isobel’s name. She might have been murdered as well, if she had. Perhaps, in her confusion she sensed that her knowledge was dangerous and although she knew it was important to convey it, still had the good judgement to keep part of it back. It is thanks to her, however, that the purpose of the murders became clear, even if I ascribed that purpose to the wrong person.”
“The trail you followed was a true one, you just scented the wrong quarry,” d’Arderon said.
“Yes. I looked for a woman in the riddle, but never for one moment conjectured that it was a woman who had, on her own, carried out the murders. And it must have been by God’s own intervention that William was directed to tell his sister of the prepared speech that Hilde related to him last night.”
“Scothern could easily have been guilty,” d’Arderon opined. “Isobel said that her brother used to visit the alehouse while she went into Anselm’s church, supposedly to attend Mass. And Scothern knew Wat, was even the cause of Isobel making the alekeeper’s acquaintance when he ordered some of Agnes’ ale for the baron’s table. But it is hard to believe that he knew nothing of what Isobel had done.”
“No, it is not,” Bascot objected. “You have seen for yourself that she is clever and has a consummate skill at hiding her emotions. Scothern is a simple soul, cautious of incurring his sister’s anger, and respectful of what he believed was her pious devotion. It would have been an easy matter for her to gull him, just as she gulled Philip de Kyme, and, indeed, the rest of us.”
D’Arderon had left Bascot to go in search of a cup of ale to slake his thirst when Ernulf had joined the Templar, Gianni trailing behind him.
“I’ve told Lady Nicolaa and the sheriff what happened in the chapel last night. And Lady Hilde, too. She had not yet been abed, but was sitting up waiting for news of how you fared. She said to tell you that your task was well done, and she would have speech with you later.”
Bascot acknowledged the words, but was looking at Gianni. The boy was strangely subdued, staying near Ernulf and looking at his master with watchful eyes. Last night Bascot had only told the boy he had Templar business with d’Arderon, and that Gianni was to keep Hilde company for the night. The lad must have discovered where Bascot had really been from the speech of the adults around him, but instead of being relieved to see his master whole and sound, he seemed distrustful and suspicious of Bascot. The Templar sighed inwardly. Gianni was a child yet and, to his mind, his protector had lied to him. The boy saw it as a breach of trust between them.
Twenty-seven
T
HE TOURNEY WAS TO TAKE PLACE ON A BROAD STRETCH of level ground outside the castle walls to the northwest. It was the place where, nearly sixty years before, King Stephen had defended his right to the crown of England against King Henry I’s daughter, the Empress Matilda. Bascot arrived just before Sext, in company with d’Arderon and two other knights of the Temple. There was a huge crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, many already seated under the trees that bordered the river on the far side, eating food they had brought with them and drinking from flasks of ale or wine.
There was a good host of knights entered in the tourney, which was comprised of only one event, the melee, a mock battle between two opposing teams of knights. Although the entrance fee was steep, the purse for the winning side was a large one, and contestants had arrived not only from the area surrounding Lincoln, but from as far afield as London and York. The merchants of Lincoln had donated a bolt of cloth and a new saddle to be awarded to the knight declared champion of the tourney. These prizes were well worth fighting for, as was the ransom that a knight would collect from any opponent he unhorsed. Many a contestant would go home the poorer, not only for the loss of his entrance fee, but also his destrier and arms, given in pledge until he should pay the silver he owed to the knight who had captured him.
Since the fighting of the melee was frowned upon by the church, King John, when granting the licence to hold it, had made certain stipulations. The tourney was to be kept within a confined area so that neighbouring farms and fields would not have their crops destroyed by the hooves of the war horses, and any knight deliberately wreaking harm on an opponent that was already unseated was to be fined and disqualified.
Bascot’s task, and that of the other Templars, was simple. First they were to oversee the drawing of the lots that would determine on which side the contesting knights would fight. Then, when the two teams were drawn up on each side of the meadow, they were to give the signal for the tourney to begin. Once the battle was underway, they had only to decide which knight, in their opinion, fought with enough valour to be declared champion. Since the team that would be adjudged the winner was the side that had the most combatants remaining at the end of two hours, the champion could be chosen from either side, whether that of the victorious or the defeated.
Bascot went to join the crowd around the large canopied stand that had been erected on the eastern side of the field. In it would sit Nicolaa and her husband, along with some of their guests. The common people would spread themselves along the perimeters of the meadow, fending for themselves as best they could if the mock battle came too near. A festive atmosphere lay over the whole event as well as an air of eager anticipation. Tents had been erected on the surrounding hillside for the use of the combatants and among these strolled minstrels, vendors of food and wine, and hawkers of everything from ribbons to horseflesh. The buzz of conversation, the strains of music from the troubadours’ instruments, the neighing of the horses and the clang of metal was a din that floated heavenward into the balmy summer air. On the surface of the meadow the daisy-starred grass rippled in a slight breeze, its beauty soon to be trampled into oblivion.
As the sun neared its zenith and the time for the commencement of the tourney approached, the crowd became silent. Nearly one hundred combatants paraded before the stand and received a ribbon—either green or yellow—that would be tied to their arms to identify on which side they belonged. Bascot and the other Templars sat on their horses overseeing the affair, all clad in surcoats of white. Most of the contestants were young, with only one or two older knights, battle scarred and grim, among them. Richard Camville rode past, mounted on a magnificent roan, and received from his mother’s hand a ribbon of green. On his shield the Camville silver lion quartered with the Haye twelve-pointed red star glittered as the sun struck it. Conal was close behind him, and given a strip of ribbon that was the same colour. In the stand, beside Nicolaa, sat Hilde, her face alight with joy as she watched her great-nephew, resplendent in chain mail and a surcoat of blue embroidered with a black raven, adjust his helm and take his place next to Richard at the south end of the field.
Beside Hilde was a golden-haired girl with a rosebud mouth, a light veil of gauze shielding her features. Bascot had seen Conal lift the young woman out of an enclosed litter a short time earlier, then carry her and seat her tenderly beside his great-aunt. Bascot supposed the girl must be the goldsmith’s daughter, removed from the aura of secrecy in which her father had kept her and openly declared by Conal as the woman he loved. Hilde had welcomed her warmly, smiling and taking the girl’s hand in her own before looking around defiantly to see if any of her neighbours should dare seem critical of her approval. Conal’s mother, Sybil, and her two brothers, Magnus and Ailwin, were noticeable by their absence.
On the other side of Hilde was Gianni, the elderly lady’s hand resting familiarly on the boy’s shoulder as he clutched her silver-headed cane close in his arms. It pleased Bascot to see his servant thus, but he felt a strange sense of loss. It was as though the boy had deserted him.
Roger de Kyme came next in the parade of entrants. He was riding a black stallion with thick hindquarters. The animal was nervous and snorted at the close proximity of the crowd, ears twitching. Behind Roger rode his cousin, Alan, mounted on a wiry grey with a small head and alert eyes. Ivo de Rollos was there, too, watching with anxious eyes as his mother, Ermingard, handed him a ribbon with an air of puzzlement about what she was doing. All three received ribbons of yellow. It took nearly an hour for the rest to pass by and receive an identifying scrap of material.
During this time Bascot let his gaze roam over the crowd. It was a motley company, merchant alongside tinker, and prostitute standing cheek by jowl with clerk. He spotted Agnes, the alewife, in the crowd, her face white and subdued as she stood with her sister and family. Agnes had been released from gaol only that morning, Isobel’s confessed guilt the alewife’s warrant to freedom.
Nearby, and a small distance apart from the others, were Isaac and his brother Nathan. They were watching the line of combatants with hawk-eyed interest. There was no doubt that many of the entrants had borrowed the price of their fee from the moneylenders. The Jews would keep a sharp tally of who, among those pledged, emerged the victor or had the misfortune to be among the vanquished.
Across the field, Bascot saw the barber-surgeon who had attended Anselm’s wound after he had been attacked. The little man was wearing a gaudy gown of red and blue, his clean-shaven face gleaming and his grey locks carefully coiffed. On his arm was a woman that Bascot supposed must be his wife, a plump matron with a merry face and red cheeks. Near to them was the cobbler from whom Bascot had bought his boots, his horse-faced wife munching on a pasty while her son ogled the young girls in the throng. On the ground, under a tree, sat the mercenary captain, Roget, and the reluctant harlot, Gillie. They were sharing a flagon of wine and laughing. When Roget saw Bascot looking his way, he raised an arm and waved.
It was as the tourney marshal was lining up the two teams of combatants that Bascot heard his name spoken. Looking down, he saw William Scothern standing beside his mount. The clerk’s face was drawn and miserable. Slung on his shoulder was a bundle and he was crumpling a soft-crowned cap between ink-stained fingers.
“Sir Bascot, I come to beg your pardon for my sister.” The young
secretarius’
demeanour was dejected, his voice a stammer so low that Bascot had to bend down from the saddle to hear him.
“It is not my pardon you must beg, nor yours to have the doing of it,” Bascot replied.
“I know that, sir,” Scothern replied, “but I feel I must do it anyway. If I had been more vigilant, less preoccupied with my work . . . and other things . . . perhaps my sister would not have done what she did.”
“That is between your own conscience and God,” Bascot said, not unkindly. “None but He can help her, or you, now.”
Scothern shook his head in misery. “Sir Philip has gone back to his manor. He did not ask me to accompany him and, even if he had, I would not have gone. There was a time that he told me he valued my loyalty. I thought he was speaking of my assistance in bringing his illegitimate son to Lincoln. But it seems he believed I knew that Isobel had warmed his bed, and appreciated my not letting it interfere with my devotion to his service.” The clerk’s face was a picture of misery. “How could he have thought me to be so base?”
The question embarrassed Bascot, and instead of attempting to answer it, he asked Scothern if he had been to see his sister.
Scothern nodded. “She is the same as ever, tight-lipped and contemptuous. I asked her what I was to tell our parents and she only replied that I could make up whatever lie my clerk’s brain deemed suitable.”
“Did you speak to her of what she had done?”
Again, Scothern nodded. “She took relish in telling me all the details. How she had told the alekeeper that Hugo was Lady Sybil’s illegitimate son by a secret lover and that the boy was threatening to expose her, demanding money for his silence. She said that she was acting for Lady Sybil. Wat believed the pair were to be found dead, apparently poisoned, to remove the threat from Isobel’s mistress. Poor fool, he believed her. Even when she made him get the harlot’s gown, he swallowed her tale.”
Scothern’s eyes filled with tears. “She told the alekeeper that it was to disguise the identity of Hugo’s wife, so that no one would know of the couple’s connection to Sybil, but she said to me that she did it as a jest. ‘All women are harlots, ’ she said to me. ‘Only men are free to enjoy their lust where they may. If a woman does it, she is named a bawd.’ She sickened me.”
Bascot felt sorry for the clerk. He had honoured his sister, believed her to be chaste. How hard it was to find that one so near to him in kinship could have such a divergence of spirit. Isobel had been right when she had said that she should have been born a man. Bascot had known many men-at-arms, and knights, that fought not for the exhilaration of battle or the glory of winning, but simply because they had a lust to spill blood. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, they were the most valued warriors, for they fought without honour or conscience and often dealt the stroke that decided the outcome of a fray.
As if echoing his thought, Scothern continued talking about his sister’s odious crimes, as though he could erase the memory by speaking of them aloud. “I asked her why she had stabbed the bodies after death. There had been no need to desecrate them so, I said. She laughed at me, said it had been a necessary practice, that she had needed to know how to deliver a knife-stroke for when she should kill Anselm. Her lover. A priest. Ah, how will God ever forgive her? She will end in hell, and there is none that can prevent it.”