The Alehouse Murders Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Praise for The Alehouse Murders

  “I loved The Alehouse Murders. Combining marvelous period detail with characters whose emotions and personalities would ring true in any era, Maureen Ash has launched a terrific new historical mystery series. I’ll be standing in line for the next Templar Knight Mystery.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author of White Lies

  “Maureen Ash masterfully creates a medieval world full of rich historic detail and peopled with fascinating characters. Her complex hero, Sir Bascot de Marins, immediately engages the reader as he tracks a ruthless killer in a mystery that will keep the reader guessing until the very end.”

  —Victoria Thompson, author of Murder in Chinatown

  “A delightful addition to the medieval mystery list. It is well researched and, even better, well written, with distinct, interesting characters and plot twists that I didn’t expect . . . I look forward to more books in the series.”

  —Sharan Newman, author of Heresy

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Maureen Ash

  THE ALEHOUSE MURDERS

  DEATH OF A SQUIRE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE ALEHOUSE MURDERS

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Maureen Ash.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  eISBN : 978-1-440-67943-8

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

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  For my daughter, Tammy;

  husband, Robert;

  and good friend Rick

  with gratitude for your constant support

  and encouragement

  One

  Lincoln

  Summer 1200 A.D.

  HEAT HUNG LIKE A SODDEN BLANKET OVER LINCOLN town and the surrounding countryside. The air was heavy, almost too thick to breathe, wrapping itself around mouth and nostrils like a linen shroud. It made the atmosphere seem ominous; a feeling enhanced by the distant sound of thunder as it rolled and crackled, but did not give the gift of rain.

  On the banks of a stream about two miles from the walls of Lincoln, a hawking party was engaged in the hunt. From behind the shelter of a stand of trees the sheriff of Lincoln, Gerard Camville, and his wife, along with their companions, watched as a falcon circled like a small speck high in the ceiling of the sky. Directly below the bird, hidden in the reeds of the river bank, lay the sheriff’s falconer, directing her movements. At his signal the kennel master released his hounds and they surged forward, barking and yapping at the ducks bobbing unsuspectingly on the gently rippling surface of the stream. In alarm, the waterfowl took to the air and, as they rose up like a whirring cloud, the peregrine stooped, plummeting like a ragged stone to strike on a fat mallard that had been a little slower than the rest. The talons and notched beak of the falcon quickly extinguished the life from its prey.

  The falconer swung his lure in a wide circle above his head, attracting the young peregrin and tempting her from her kill. Soon she was hooded and resting securely on her trainer’s wrist, the tidbit he fed her disappearing quickly down her sharp curved beak, while servants ran to secure the mallard in a rough cloth sack. The bird skittered and bobbed on the falconer’s wrist, pulling against the thongs that bound her. He calmed her by dribbling water from his mouth over the feathers on her back.

  “Good man. Well done.” The thickly muscled figure of the sheriff, Gerard Camville, left the cover of the trees. He walked lightly for so large a man, but there was no doubting the aggressiveness of his personality. It was there in the forward thrust of his jaw and in the restless darting eyes. “You have trained her well, Eubold,” he said to the falconer. “I was right to buy her. These birds from the cliffs of Wales are far superior to those of Norway. I remember King Henry losing a fine gyrfalcon in combat to one of this strain some fifteen years ago. We will get some good sport from her.”

  “And some tender morsels for the table as well, I trust.” Nicolaa de la Haye came to stand beside the sheriff. They were an oddly assorted pair, the sheriff’s powerful figure seeming to diminish that of the small plump woman who was his wife. But only the most unobservant would not have noticed that they were more than equally matched in temperament. Camville’s fractiousness washed over the calmness of his wife’s demeanour with the futility of a winter storm beating upon a rock. Both in their midforties, they had been married for more than twenty years, and although time had not softened the contrast in their personalities, it had taught them both to tolerate the differences.

  The rest of the hawking party came
to where they stood. It was a small group, with only a handful of the castle’s household knights and a few servants to carry the food and wine for their midmorning meal.

  “We will go downstream,” Camville announced, “towards the marsh. Perhaps we will find some heron on which to test this beauty.” He reached over and took the bird from the falconer, securing her to his own gauntleted wrist and setting the bells on her jesses tinkling.

  “Do you not think, Gerard, that it would be best to keep her to smaller prey at first?” Nicolaa asked her husband. On her own gloved wrist perched a merlin, the small falcon deemed suitable for a woman’s use. It was one of her favourites, and sat quietly, the rough spotted feathers on its breast ruffling lightly in the breeze. “Your bird is young yet; she will lose heart if you set her too hard a task before she is ready.”

  Gerard turned to debate the point when he noticed a thin trail of dust rising above the trees that lay between the stream where they stood and the stone walls of Lincoln. Soon the muffled sound of hoof beats, moving at speed on the hard-packed dirt of the forest track, reached them and, moments later, a horse and rider broke through the cover of the trees into the clearing at the side of the stream. It was a man-at-arms from the castle garrison; the twelve pointed red star of the Haye family showing brightly on the breast of his tunic. Sliding to a stop in front of Gerard and Nicolaa he dismounted, leaving his horse standing foam-flecked and with heaving sides as he went down on one knee before the sheriff and his wife.

  “Christ’s Blood,” Camville swore, “what is it now? Can we not have a morning’s sport without interruption?”

  “My lord, my lady,” the soldier panted, “Ernulf has sent me.” The man-at-arms was young, with a pasty face liberally scarred with boils. Sweat ran in rivulets from the lank brown hair that stuck out from beneath his leather cap, caused not only by the heat and the exertions of his ride, but also nervousness at being the center of his master and mistress’ attention. He hoped to draw the sheriff’s well known irascibility away from himself by making it clear that it was the captain of the castle guard, not he, that was the cause of the intrusion.

  Camville swore again, but Nicolaa laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Ernulf would not spoil your pleasure on a whim, Gerard. It must be important.”

  Although Gerard was sheriff it was Nicolaa, through the inheritance of her father, who was castellan of the castle and responsible to the king for its security. Ernulf had been in her father’s service since she had been a child. His loyalty to her was unquestionable, as was his devotion to her well-being. If he had thought there was reason to disturb her, it would not be for naught. “What is the message from Ernulf?” she asked of the young soldier.

  The lad took a great gulp of air, thankful for Lady Nicolaa’s calm authority, and now with relish he repeated the words he had been told to say. “There has been murder done in Lincoln town, my lady. Four people dead in an alehouse off Danesgate. All stabbed to death. Sir Bascot and Ernulf have gone to the place and to see the priest of St. Andrew’s. It was the priest who reported the crime.” The young man-at-arm’s face grew even redder with the excitement of his tale. The boils looked ready to burst.

  “May God’s angels weep,” Camville exploded. “As if this hell-sent weather wasn’t enough, we now have a murderer loose in Lincoln. And the fair about to begin. Someone’s guts shall spill for this.”

  Although the news had shaken Nicolaa as well, she reacted with more restraint than her husband. “If these unfortunates were found in an alehouse, Gerard, they may only be drunken sots who have killed each other over a game of dice, or a woman. It is most likely something of nothing.”

  Camville was not much mollified, but he did grunt in assent to her reasoning, and he gave her no argument when she suggested that she return to the castle immediately to find out what was the truth of the matter. “It may be some hours before all the details are known, Gerard. I will go now and you can return at your leisure. There is no need for both of us to lose the morning’s sport.”

  At the sheriff’s nod of agreement Nicolaa spoke to the messenger. “Return to Lincoln. Find Ernulf and tell him I am returning directly. Tell him also to be discreet and that he and Sir Bascot are to report to me with all haste, before this news is bruited abroad and alarms the townspeople and the visitors who have come for the fair. I shall await them in my private chamber.”

  As the man-at-arms put his heels to his flagging mount and sped away, Nicolaa herself moved to depart, motioning for one of the servants to accompany her. “God grant these deaths were caused by nothing more than an alehouse brawl, Gerard. But if they were not, we shall need some good meat for the table to fortify ourselves for any trouble that may come. Perhaps I was wrong about your new falcon. It may be time to try her on a larger quarry.”

  With a smile she disappeared down the track, the servant following behind. It was an old game between her and her husband. She bought his complaisance by pandering to his taste for the hunt and his disinclination to attend to the details of running the shrievalty and castle. In return she retained the power in her own hands, managing the garrison and Haye lands as her father had done before her. It suited them both.

  Two

  LINCOLN CASTLE STANDS HIGH ON THE SUMMIT OF A hill, sharing the height with the Minster and cathedral. Bisecting the area between the castle on the western side and the Minster on the east runs the old Roman road of Ermine Street which continues down the precipitous southern slope of the hill and converges at its base with the River Witham. On either side of this main street and below the confines of the castle and Minster lies the town, stretching out on either side like the outer edges of a leaf from the main stem. All of this area—castle, Minster and town—are encircled by a stout stone wall with an additional parapet encasing the top of the hill which can be sealed off from the lower reaches in case of attack. Within the large bailey of the castle, beside barracks, stable, chapel, smith and store-houses, are two keeps, one newly built and an older one which, although showing signs of disrepair, is still sound enough to house the armoury and a few sleeping chambers.

  When one of the town watchmen brought Ernulf the urgent message from Anselm, the priest of St. Andrew’s, Bascot de Marins was breaking his fast in the hall of the new keep. De Marins was a Templar, a member of the religious military order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and Temple of Solomon. He had arrived in Lincoln a few months before, in the dead of winter, clad in the white surcoat of a Templar, with the blood red cross of Christ emblazoned on its breast. He had been emaciated and weary, his only companion a young Italian boy, Gianni, riding pillion behind him. The boy, who was a mute, had looked in no better state than his master, for he was thin and shivering in the cold of a climate with which he was unfamiliar.

  After a brief conference with Nicolaa de la Haye, the Templar had been given a room to himself in the old keep, and had not been seen for many days; only the boy appeared to take him his meals and bring back the empty vessels on which the food had been served. The boy, too, had otherwise kept to the chamber, seeming fearful of any who approached, and attempted communication only with the cook. To him, through a series of hand gestures, the boy conveyed the needs of himself and his master and gave his thanks by means of a shy smile and a grateful glance from beneath his mop of brown curls.

  No one had been told why the Templar was in Lincoln. Gerard Camville had said in passing that de Marins had been on crusade in the Holy Land with the now-dead King Richard back in ’91, and had been captured by the Saracens during a skirmish near Acre at the end of that year. After eight long years of captivity he had recently escaped. It was obvious that he had been tortured during his incarceration, for he wore a leather patch over the eye socket of his missing right eye and walked with a pronounced limp. When, early one morning, he came into the hall to break his fast after attending Mass in the castle chapel, all eyes had turned his way but, although polite, he had said nothing of his past and seemed disinclined to talk ab
out it. Any question put to him that referred to his ordeal was met with a disarming silence and then a deliberate change of conversation that left no doubt that while he did not wish to give offence, neither did he want to confide.

  He was a man of medium height, with skin burned by the sun to the colour of old copper, and hair and beard of dark brown that was prematurely threaded with grey. His one remaining eye was blue, so pale in colour that it was startling in the burnished darkness of his skin, seeming like a piece of ice that the sun had failed to melt. As he began to recover his health, he had taken to practicing his combative skills in the yard, first with a blunted sword against the wooden stake erected for the purpose, and finally with Ernulf in mock battle using both sword and shield. While he seemed to have regained his former weight, his prowess with a sword was hampered by the lameness of his leg and the blindness of one eye. For all that, he still made a formidable opponent for Ernulf, who needed all the tricks he had learned in his many years as a soldier to keep pace with the Templar.

  When Ernulf went into the hall that morning seeking someone in authority to accompany him in answering Anselm’s summons, there was little of the castle retinue stirring. A few servants had set out trestle tables and laid them with platters of cold meats and early summer fruits. The night shift of the castle guard were seated at the rear of the hall downing mugs of ale and some cheese before returning to the barracks for a few hours sleep. A couple of clerics and a smattering of Haye personal servants were drinking watered wine and munching on day-old bread while, in a corner, some of the pages were playing a game with a set of polished rabbit bones. Beneath the covered walkway from the kitchen to the hall a pair of serving maids giggled behind their hands. The heat of the last few days had permeated even the thick wall of stones with which the keep was built and the air was stuffy, redolent with the smell of smoke from the torches that lit the inner confines of the room mixed with the scent of the pungent herbs that had been scattered amongst the rushes on the floor. Of the household knights there was little evidence. Those that were not out on the hawking party with the sheriff and Nicolaa de la Haye were still in their beds sleeping off the effects of last night’s wine. Only Bascot sat at the table below the dais that was usually used by those of knight’s rank, with the boy Gianni standing behind him in attendance.