Death of a Squire Read online

  “It may be so, and I must admit that I hope it was,” Bascot replied. “I would have sworn Bettina was telling me the truth. If she lied, she was most convincing. Of all the people I have asked about the dead boy, she is the only one I have been inclined to believe. Unless she was forced to the tale by her relatives, I would not have thought her corrupt.”

  “Mon ami,” Roget said sadly, “all men—and women—are corrupt. It is not a fine art to know that; it is to judge the degree of iniquity that is difficult. And those with the fairest face and form often have the blackest hearts. It is a sorrow, but it is true.”

  Ernulf nodded in morose agreement and held out his wine cup for replenishment. Bascot thought on the mercenary’s words, reminded of the last time he had been involved in a matter of unlawful slaying and how he had been so easily gulled by a pretty countenance and a soft manner. Was it happening again? Was the dairymaid lying to him? And if she was not, and she also was not the girl the charcoal burner’s son had seen with Hubert, then who was?

  Fourteen

  NEAR THE NORTHERN TIP OF SHERWOOD FOREST, AND A good few miles from Lincoln town, a ragged band of men, women and a few small children were gathered around a barely smouldering fire. Above the almost dead embers some thin strips of venison were roasting, threaded on a wooden skewer. It was the last of their store. Hunger was beginning to make itself felt once again and the hopelessness of despair was etched on all their faces. A tattered canopy of leaf-bare branches still shielded them a little from the stark winter sky above, but the smell of snow was in the air and they were cold. All the men were fugitives, brigands who had, in one way or another, broken the law and fled from the harsh penalties of justice. The women, tied by bonds of marriage or kinship, had chosen to flee with their men rather than face a life of poverty alone. But hunger is still hunger and is not eased by sharing it. Dusk had not yet fallen but most of their number were already asleep, too weak to stay awake. The women were huddled together, the children in their midst, getting as much shelter as they could from bracken piled against the trunk of a fallen tree. One of the children, a babe of barely twelve months, began to cry and his mother soothed him by pushing a rag soaked with ale into his mouth. Soon there would not even be any ale, for the last of the brew they had husbanded so carefully was almost gone.

  “We’ll have to go back to Camville’s chase,” said Fulcher, handing the child’s mother one of the strips of venison. It was little enough, but she could chew it until it was soft enough for the babe to swallow.

  “Go back there?” Talli burst out. “Has hunger mazed your senses?”

  “No,” responded Fulcher, “but it soon will, unless we get something to eat.”

  He looked around at the little band. The strips of venison had come from the chunks of meat taken from the deer they had poached, but even though it had been bolstered by the addition of boiled hedgehog and a few dried berries, it had not lasted long when shared amongst them. Rustling noises came from the forest around them as small nocturnal animals began their nightly quest for food and in the distance the lone howl of a wolf sounded. Fulcher shuddered. They were helpless in the face of winter’s onslaught.

  “There’s deer enough in Sherwood,” Berdo said. “And not so much chance of getting caught.” The dying glow from the fire lit up his face, catching the stub of all that remained of his left ear, clipped for stealing. “There’s more cover to hide from the foresters, for one thing and, for another, we don’t have to cross the river to bring the meat back.”

  Talli nudged his companion. “You know why we can’t take a deer in Sherwood, and it’s nothing to do with the foresters.”

  Berdo seemed about to say more, then decided against it. Fulcher gave him a glare. “Spit it out, Berdo. It’s me that Green Jack’s got an argument with, not the rest of you. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  Berdo looked up. Fulcher was their leader. They had been together for two years now, ever since the day that Fulcher had helped him and Talli escape from the confines of the sheriff’s gaol in Nottingham. He was strong, and he was clever, but what he said was right. It had been Fulcher who had fought with the leader of another band in Sherwood. And Green Jack—so called for his ability to move through the greenwood with no more noise than a leaf rustling on a twig—had been there longer than Fulcher and had more men under his command. Fulcher and his band had been penned into this small northeastern corner of Sherwood for months, finding themselves stopped by an arrow or a sharply flung stone if they attempted to move deeper into the forest. That was why they had been forced go farther afield than Sherwood to find meat. The feud between the two outlaw chiefs would end only if Fulcher turned over the leadership of his band to Jack or if Fulcher left the area entirely.

  Berdo leaned forward, speaking earnestly, encouraging his leader to pretend to disappear. “It’d be easy to do, Fulcher. If you was to hole up somewheres and stay out of sight, Jack would think you’d gone for good and let the rest of us join up with him again. We could even sneak you some food if you needs it. It’d only have to be until the cold weather is past, then, in the spring, we could get together again.”

  Fulcher leaned across the fire and grabbed the front of Berdo’s filthy jerkin, pulling him forward so that the thief’s face was close to the embers. “Do you think I’m going to hide from that vermin? Let him think I’ve turned tail and run? I’d rather roast in hell.”

  Talli laid a placating hand on the arm of his leader. “Easy, Fulcher. Berdo don’t mean it. He’s hungry, that’s all, and his stomach is talking through his mouth.”

  Reluctantly Fulcher released Berdo, who slumped back onto his haunches, resentfully rubbing his face where the heat from the fire had scorched it.

  “Maybe you and Jack could call pax, Fulcher,” Talli suggested. “Just for the winter. Let one of us go and talk to him, see what he says.”

  Fulcher hawked and spat into the fire. “You know what he’ll say, Talli. Same as I would if I were him. Leave me and join his men and he’ll see that you get a share of whatever they can steal or beg. You can go if you want. I won’t stop you, nor blame you. It’s your sister and her boy over there that’s starving and you want to see them fed.”

  Fulcher rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the fire. Finally, he straightened up. “I’ll make your choice for you, Talli; for all of you. Tomorrow I’ll go alone to Camville’s chase and try to snare some game. If I don’t, I won’t come back. Then you can go to Jack for help, or to the Devil for all I care.”

  With these last words he rose to his feet and strode off into the darkness. Talli looked nervously at Berdo. “He’s sure to be caught. That lad that was hanging in the tree will have been found by now and Camville’s soldiers will be all over the place looking for whoever put him there.”

  Berdo shrugged and rubbed his fingers over the remains of his ear. “If he’s taken, he’s taken; if he’s not, he’s not. Either way we’ll get some grease for our innards, if not from Fulcher, then from Green Jack.”

  TOSTIG FINISHED INSPECTING THE BUCKSTALL THAT Gerard Camville had instructed his huntsmen to erect for the enclosure of deer destined for slaughter, then mounted his horse and rode to John Chard’s camp. As he approached the compound he heard the burner’s dog whining. The animal was on the far side of one of the dome-shaped mounds, paws edged close to the body of a man who lay facedown on the ground. Tostig knelt beside the animal and turned the lifeless form over. It was the charcoal burner. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his chest and there was a look of surprise on his face. He had been dead some hours, for his body was as cold as stone.

  The dog became agitated now, backing away from Tostig, its declawed feet clumsy as it scrabbled round the side of the mound. The forester followed, trying to coax the animal to return, but the dog kept up his lopsided gait and disappeared into the shack that had been the charcoal burner’s home. Tostig went to the door and pushed back the flimsy curtain of bound reeds that covered it.
As he stepped inside, the dog began to growl, belatedly trying to protect another body that lay on the floor. It was Chard’s older son, Adam. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear. In his hand was still clutched a stout branch with which he must have tried to protect himself. On the other side of the shack his little brother lay in a similar condition, mouth set in the rictus of a silent scream above the gaping wound in his throat. Blood was spattered over the boys’ clothing and on the beaten earth of the floor. Of what had once been the charcoal burner’s family, only the dog remained alive.

  Tostig went outside, took a few deep gulps of air, then dragged John Chard’s body inside the hut to join those of his two sons. After securing the door of the shack against predators, he left the camp. The dog set up a mournful wail as the forester rode off.

  BASCOT WAS IN THE TEMPLAR LINCOLN PRECEPTORY when one of the castle guard was despatched to apprise him of the forester’s discovery. He had been there since the previous evening, having come to deliver a request from Nicolaa de la Haye for the Order to supply the castle with extra spices, mainly cinnamon, for the king’s visit. D’Arderon, the preceptor, was a man of mature years who had spent almost the whole of his adult life in the Templar Order. He had welcomed Bascot warmly, genuinely pleased to see him. The older Templar knew that Bascot’s imprisonment in the Holy Land had caused doubts about the rightness of the Templar cause in his younger comrade’s mind, and that it had also seriously damaged his trust in God. This lapse had been exacerbated when Bascot had returned to England and found that all of the de Marins family—father, mother, brother—had perished in his absence. But d’Arderon believed it to be only a matter of time before Bascot would, as he put it, “unravel the confusion of his senses” and once more take up his sword and join his comrades in the battle against the Saracens.

  It had been time for the evening meal when Bascot had arrived at the preceptory and d’Arderon had invited him to join the company at board. There were three ranks in the Templar Order and their status was denoted by the colour of the surcoats that they wore; knights in white, serjeants and men-at-arms in black or brown, and priests in green. Bascot had taken a place with his fellow knights, enjoying a welcome feeling of ease. Here were men who lived as he had done, scrupulously obeying their vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. The rules were rigorous, but simple. Duty was the prime mandate, to keep oneself fit and able to bear arms in order to protect pilgrims and, if the opportunity arose, to slay the infidel. Templars were not responsible to any earthly magnate, be they monarch or prince, their only obedience outside the Order to the pope in Rome.

  Bascot had taken his seat amongst the others, nodding to a few old acquaintances and introducing himself to those he had not met before. The meal was a hearty one, for this was one of the three days of the week when meat was allowed, with good-sized chunks of lamb in a rich brown broth and an assortment of winter vegetables stirred in, followed by plates of cheese and marchpane. Although they were all monks, the usual stricture regarding diet that was laid on nonmilitary religious orders was not applied to the Templars because of the necessity of maintaining their strength for battle. While they ate, silence was mandatory, only a reading of scripture by one of the Templar priests to be heard above the clatter of bowls and eating knives.

  Afterwards, Bascot stayed for the recreational hour when the Templars were allowed to gather in the chapter house for general conversation until it was time for the service at Compline. Besides the preceptor, there were only four knights in residence at the moment: two who had just joined the Order and would soon be on their way to Outremer, one recently returned from the Holy Land after fulfilling a vow of atonement that had involved a promise to serve with the Templars for ten years—an arrangement that had been allowed by the Order on receipt of a gift of land from the penitent knight—and one lately arrived from Spain with despatches for d’Arderon. Old battles were refought, former acquaintances remembered and the politics of the struggle against the Saracens discussed, along with the hope of a good response to the call Pope Innocent III had made the year before for Christendom to undertake a new crusade.

  Bascot enjoyed the evening and it had not taken much persuasion by d’Arderon to convince him to spend the night in the preceptory dormitory. Since it had been necessary that he and Gianni give up their small chamber in the older of Lincoln’s two keeps to guests that had come for the king’s visit, they were now sleeping in the barracks alongside the men of the garrison. Bascot knew that Ernulf would see Gianni safely in bed for the night and felt able to indulge himself in another cup of wine and more talk with his comrades.

  It had been late when he had rolled himself up in his cloak and lain down on one of the hard pallets that lined both sides of the Templar dormitory, dimly lit all night by small oil lamps as commanded by the Order’s rule. Around him the other knights were also preparing for bed; the creak of leather and small clangs of metal the only noise as they took off the outermost of their garments and lay down still almost fully clothed, another rule that was scrupulously obeyed. Soon the large chamber was quiet, only the sounds of regular breathing and the occasional snore disturbing the silence. Bascot lay awake for a time, considering the path that lay before him. He felt pulled in two directions: Gianni and the boy’s welfare on the one hand, his vows to the Order on the other. The boy was dependent on him, had been since the day Bascot had saved him from starvation in Sicily, and Bascot admitted to himself that he would be reluctant to part from the lad, had come to regard him almost as a son. But Gianni was growing older, would soon be of an age to fend for himself, and in the meantime Bascot knew that if he left to rejoin the Templars, Ernulf, without family or child of his own, would care for the boy as well, if not better, than Bascot was able to.

  As for the Templar Order, Bascot was beginning to feel a pull to return to its ranks. He had been happy here this evening, had experienced a sense of belonging that he did not feel among the household knights in the Haye retinue, despite his liking and respect for Lady Nicolaa. When he had arrived in Lincoln almost a year ago, he had been angry, at God and at himself. Then he had wished only for solitude, a place to try and forget all that had happened. It was for that reason that the Order had sent him to Lincoln and Nicolaa de la Haye. She had, at the request of the Templar preceptor in London, provided him with shelter and food so that he could have a space of time not only to recover his health and strength, but perhaps also his devotion to God and the Order. Now he wondered if he was, as had been hoped, beginning to do just that.

  Or was he merely wishing for an easier path to follow? Staying on in Lincoln would invite responsibilities, not only for Gianni but in the matter of earning his keep. He knew that Nicolaa would be only too happy for him to retire from the Order and take up a post among her household knights, for she had hinted as much. He knew she valued his talents, had already taken to using him as a deputy in the many instances that required not only a man of knight’s rank, but also literacy, a rare commodity among the upper strata of society, and one that he possessed. There was also the matter of his successful apprehension of the alehouse murderer some months before. That he had felt satisfaction at his success and that both Nicolaa and her husband had been grateful to him had been obvious. And now she had once again set him to probing into a matter involving a secret slaying. Could it be that a fear of failing to solve this new riddle of death was the cause of his feeling such a strong pull to return to the Order? Was he experiencing, perhaps, not a return of faith but apprehension about the extent of his own abilities?

  He burrowed deeper into the covering of his cloak, murmured a prayer for guidance, and then fell into a deep sleep. It was out of a dark dreamless void that the chaplain’s bell for Tierce woke him. The other Templar knights in the dormitory had already left their pallets to celebrate the earlier religious offices, and Bascot got up from his own bed and went to join them in the round chapel that was the hub of the preceptory, his confusion still unresolved.

  It
had been just as he was leaving the chapel after Mass and preparing to return to Lincoln castle that the man-at-arms sent by Ernulf had arrived and told of Tostig’s grisly discovery at the charcoal burner’s camp. The report was accompanied by a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to return as soon as possible. D’Arderon, who had come to bid Bascot farewell, listened gravely while the man-at-arms was speaking, his face concerned.

  “I know you are under duty to Lady Nicolaa at present, de Marins, and must give her your assistance in this matter,” the preceptor said. “But don’t let it be so long before you come to us again. You belong here, with us, not out in the forest chasing murderers. The Order needs you, and so does God.”

  Bascot acknowledged the sincerity in d’Arderon’s words and bade him a reluctant farewell before he turned his mount towards the gate and followed the man-at-arms back to Lincoln castle.

  EARLIER THAT MORNING FULCHER HAD EMERGED FROM the verge of that part of Sherwood Forest that abutted the banks of the Trent and crept in the predawn light down to the water’s edge, pulled out a small skiff from its hiding place in the overhang of undergrowth and poled himself across the river. He had been in Gerard Camville’s chase just as the pale winter sun was striking its first shards of light across the tops of the trees, and inside the sheriff’s buckstall a short time later. There were several deer trapped in the huge pen, ones that had been lured there by the mounds of tasty ivy and holly piled inside into leaping over the low fence, only to find their exit blocked by a deep ditch at the internal base of the barrier. Fulcher, straddled above them in the boughs of a tree that overlooked the pen, surveyed the frightened animals below him and chose a small female roe deer that looked to be in her first year. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he took her in the neck with one shot and leaped down into the enclosure to claim his prize. The rest of the deer, smelling blood, shied away to the far side of the buckstall, clustering together and milling about looking for a means of escape. Fulcher quickly removed the arrow from the dead doe, then slung the carcass up on his back before traversing the ditch and climbing the fence, throwing his burden down on the other side before jumping over himself. He stood still for a moment, testing the quietness of the forest before he once again heaved the dead deer up on his back and began to retrace his steps to the river’s edge.