Death of a Squire Page 12

  Nicolaa gave the girl a searching glance. “You were fond of Hubert, then?”

  The girl did not drop her gaze. “No, lady. Not especially so. But I do care for his mother and Hubert was, after all, a son of my own father’s loins. It is my duty to comply with my stepmother’s wishes.”

  Nicolaa nodded and spoke to her husband. Gerard Camville had stayed silent throughout this exchange, leaning back in his chair and listening with watchful eyes. Musicians with rebec and viol were playing quietly at the back of the hall and the company, after the initial excitement of Richard’s arrival, had resumed conversing with each other and holding up their goblets for scurrying servitors to refill.

  “I think, Gerard, this matter would be best discussed privily, do you not agree? Afterwards, Richard can give us the king’s messages.”

  Camville grunted and rose to his feet. He was by nature a taciturn man, and an indolent one, content to let his wife deal with any demanding matters that arose. Reluctant though he was to leave the comfort of the hall and become embroiled in yet another discussion of the squire’s murder, he recognised the need for his presence.

  “De Marins should also attend,” he said to his wife shortly; then, to his brother, “And you, too, William. This matter touches both of us.”

  Nicolaa sent Alain, who was standing rigidly behind Gerard’s chair, to find Bascot and direct him to attend her without delay. Then she made her excuses to the company and they all left the hall.

  BASCOT CAME AWAY FROM THE MEETING WITH GODFROI and Marie de Tournay with a feeling that he was now more familiar with the character of the murdered squire. The boy certainly did not seem to have many redeeming qualities. Quite the reverse in fact.

  Like Joscelin de Vetry, the brother and sister had not been aware that Hubert had been murdered, or that his body had been desecrated by crows. Nicolaa had explained that she had not wanted to cause the boy’s mother undue anguish and had therefore left the details of her son’s death untold when she had sent her message.

  “I fear she will be much distressed,” she said. “De Vetry intends to have Hubert’s coffin sealed, but even so, some explanation will be required.”

  “I will tell her,” Marie said firmly, although her eyes were awash with unshed tears. In appearance she was very like her brother, with dark eyes and hair, but there the resemblance ended. The intensity that was etched on every plane of her brother’s face was lacking in Marie. She was strong, but not unbending, and there was compassion in her voice when she spoke of her stepmother.

  “My father married Hubert’s mother when he was elderly,” she had told them, at which William Camville nodded. It had been at Fulk de Tournay’s request that he had taken Hubert to train for knighthood. Soon after the boy had become a part of William’s household the elder de Tournay had died, after suffering many long months from a wasting fever.

  “Our mother had been dead for some years when my father married again,” Marie had gone on to explain. “The household had long been in need of a woman’s hand, for I was too young to take charge. Hubert’s mother is kind, too kind, perhaps. When he was born she was overly protective of him, cosseting him and keeping him by her when he should have been out from under her skirts.” Marie shrugged. “It made him petulant. When he was not given something he wanted, he would run to her, begging her indulgence. She never refused him. Even when he told lies or stole some trifling object—which he did quite often—he was never punished. And my father was too ill by then to take him under his hand. My brothers attempted to chastise him when he would do some mischief, but”—Marie gave an impatient sigh—“his mother always defended him, giving him a tidbit to eat and telling him he was not to be upset at their angry words. It was hopeless.”

  “By the time he went to your household, Sir William, his nature was set in ways that were not commendable,” Godfroi added, his face wooden. “But he is our blood kin and his murder must be avenged.”

  Gerard Camville, pacing the room as was his usual habit, had listened to them in silence. Then, tersely, he told them of the murder of the charcoal burner and his sons and how an outlaw had been taken while poaching the sheriff’s deer.

  “It is more than likely that brigands are behind all of these deeds. If the one that has been captured did not carry out the acts himself, I will warrant that he knows who did,” the sheriff said. “He will admit to no crime other than taking the deer, but I will get the truth from him before I am through. If he killed your half brother, you may rest assured he will pay—and pay dearly—for the doing of it.”

  As he spoke the words there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the sheriff would carry out his promise. Gerard Camville was known for his brutality. The outlaw would not be spared any pain before he faced his final moments.

  Bascot had left the room with the de Tournay brother and sister, leaving Richard alone with his parents and uncle for their private conversation. It was obvious that Marie was exhausted. The hurried journey in winter weather and the distress of the news she would have to convey to Hubert’s mother had taken their toll. Leaving her in her brother’s care, Bascot asked if he could meet with them in the morning when they were both rested, to discuss if there could be any other reason for Hubert’s murder besides a chance encounter with outlaws.

  Seventeen

  FULCHER WAS BEING KEPT IN A SMALL HOLDING CELL near the barracks. His wrists were still pinned to the sturdy branch that Copley had ordered his men to place across his shoulders and he was slumped on the dirt floor, head bowed and eyes glassy. He was so near to unconsciousness that he paid no heed to the two men who were beating him, nor to Roget and Ernulf, who stood watching.

  “He is either stupid or fearful of a greater punishment,” Roget said to the serjeant. “My men have been at him for the best part of the morning and still he will not admit that he had any hand in the murder of the boy.”

  Ernulf made no comment. He was here only at Lady Nicolaa’s request. Inflicting pain on a person unable to defend himself was not something for which he had much liking. He knew it was necessary at times, but fair battle was more to his taste than this torturing of a helpless man, however great his crime.

  The two men who had been systematically beating the outlaw were members of Gerard Camville’s town guard, of which Roget was captain. They were both evil tempered and surly, and seemed to enjoy their task. Their smirking grins had produced an angry knot in Ernulf’s gut. He longed to escape the dimness of the small windowless cell, lit only by a few flaring cressets set in sconces on the wall. The smell of blood and sweat permeated the air.

  “Perhaps he is innocent of the boy’s death,” Ernulf said. “Although even if he is not, he is a rare man not to admit it after a beating like that.”

  Roget gave Ernulf a sideways glance. The scar that ran down the side of the captain’s face puckered as he mused on the serjeant’s words. “That is my opinion also, mon ami,” he finally said. “The sheriff will not be pleased at my lack of success, but I do not think we will get any further with this miscreant. Guilty of taking the deer he may be, but of the other…I am beginning to doubt it.”

  With a brief command to his two men, Roget stopped Fulcher’s punishment and told them to leave. When they had gone, laughing as they did so about how great a thirst their exertions had built up, Roget went forward and released the outlaw’s wrists from the pole. Fulcher slumped to the ground, eyes shut and breath shallow. Between them, Roget and Ernulf lifted the comatose brigand onto a straw pallet and threw a threadbare blanket over him.

  “I’ll send one of my men with food and water, although I think perhaps it will be futile,” Ernulf said, leaning over and feeling the pulse in Fulcher’s throat. “He is still alive, but barely. Your men did their work a little too well.”

  Roget regarded the outlaw, the bruises that swelled his face, the split lips and grotesquely puffed eyelids. The rough tunic he had been wearing was split in several places, blood seeping through the torn cloth like sap bubbling fr
om the cracked bark of a tree. Roget gave a Gallic shrug of his burly shoulders. “Perhaps. But if he dies, it may be a mercy. He will hang whether he killed the boy or not. It is the penalty for poaching and the sheriff will be only too pleased to inflict the punishment.”

  The two men walked to the door and went out into the bail. Ernulf threw the iron bolt that locked the door from the outside. Pulling a wineskin from his belt, Roget took a large mouthful and passed the flask to the serjeant. Above them the sky was darkening into evening. The air was cold and clear. Around them the bailey was settling down for the night, and the muted sounds of servants finishing their tasks for the day drifted towards them—the clank of a bucket, the mournful protest of a cow being penned in for the night, the call of the castle guards as they changed shifts.

  The captain took another swig from his wineskin, his brow furrowed in thought. “Something bothering you, Roget?” Ernulf asked.

  “I am wondering how it came to be that it was Copley who caught the wolf’s head we have in there. The sheriff’s chase is not in his bailiwick, is it?”

  Ernulf shrugged. “No, but as agent for the chief forester he has a right to be in any part of the woodland. All belong to the king, even Camville’s chase. And the chief forester is the king’s officer and so, therefore, is Copley.”

  “I do not mean that, my friend. What I mean is that Copley is renowned for his love of wine, not for his attachment to duty. Not that I find fault with that, of course,” Roget’s mouth split in a wide grin, revealing teeth that were still sound, but gapped in places. “But does it not strike you to wonder why Copley, who finds it such a great effort to carry out his normal responsibilities, should suddenly engage in extra labour by patrolling a part of the forest where he has no reason to go? And then, while he is doing this, he has the great good fortune to stumble across an outlaw poaching the sheriff’s deer? It seems to me most strange.”

  Ernulf pondered Roget’s words then reached for his companion’s wine and took a deep draught. “Strange it may be,” he said, “but I cannot see anything untoward in it.”

  “Think, Ernulf, think! The sheriff looks for an answer to the riddle of who killed the squire. Lady Nicolaa also looks for this. They ask questions, set the Templar to ask more. Suddenly, they have the culprit—a brigand provided by Copley. That chien in there”—Roget nodded in the direction of the cell—“will hang for taking the sheriff’s deer. Once he is dead, it takes only a little step of the imagination for everyone to believe he also killed the squire. Who is to prove different?” Roget’s eyes sparkled as he propounded his theory. “It is a tidy answer. Me, I do not believe providence smiles so easily.”

  “Nor do I, Roget,” Ernulf replied musingly. “Nor do I.” He handed the wineskin back to the captain. “I think I will have a private word with Bascot. And with Lady Nicolaa.”

  THE SMELL OF BLOOD HUNG IN THE AIR AS GIANNI passed through the western gate of the castle bail. Today was the eleventh of November, St. Martin’s day, and the traditional time of the year to slaughter animals too old or infirm to warrant being fed throughout the winter. Within the castle, in the town, and out in the villages dotted around the countryside, cattle, sheep and swine had been butchered during the last few days and their carcasses readied for preservation by salting or smoking. But first there would be a feast of fresh meat, to celebrate the saint’s day, and Gianni felt his mouth water at the prospect.

  Resolutely he put the thought of food from his mind. He had met with no difficulty from the guards on the gate as he had passed through. There were many people coming and going—tradesmen, merchants, villagers, servants and a few guests—so that he had been able to slip past unnoticed. He set out towards the Fossdyke and, as he walked, turned over in his mind what he had heard that morning.

  He had been present when his master had talked to the dark-haired young knight called Godfroi, and his sister, Marie, and had heard Bascot asking them if they had any knowledge of their half brother, Hubert, being involved in a plot to depose King John from his throne. Godfroi had been angry at the accusation, but the Templar had calmed him, saying it was a rumour that must be looked into before it spread and was acknowledged as truth. The girl, Marie, had added her plea to Bascot’s words and Godfroi, still surly, had assured the Templar that if Hubert had, by some chance, been involved in such machinations, then it was without the knowledge or agreement of the rest of his family.

  “My brother and I are as loyal to the king as my father was to Richard, and Henry before him,” Godfroi had insisted. “Never has any of our family betrayed their liege lord, not even when Stephen took the throne from his cousin Matilda. We kept to the oath we had sworn to her father, and helped Henry retrieve his inheritance.” Marie had placed a hand on her brother’s arm, showing her support.

  “And your kinsman, Eustace de Vescy—the boy spoke of his involvement, and that Hubert was privy to plans that were being made,” Bascot said.

  Now Godfroi had laughed out loud, more amused than angry. “If de Vescy was ever forming such a plot—and I, for one, am sure it is untrue—such a great lord would hardly divulge his schemes to a stripling related to him only by the meagrest thread of blood. Were it not so serious, it would be laughable.”

  Bascot had then sent Gianni to fetch more victuals from the kitchen. The Templar had met the brother and sister just after early Mass and they had taken seats in a corner of the hall to break their fast. Godfroi had proved to be a prodigious trencherman, especially when fuelled by anger, and he had quickly devoured all that Gianni had set before them, including the small loaf of fine manchet bread reserved for those of higher rank. Even though Marie had denied being hungry, Bascot hoped that another plate of food might tempt her to take some nourishment.

  It was as Gianni was returning from the kitchen that he heard something that had interested him. He was in the covered walkway that connected the building that housed the cook’s ovens with the great hall, and had been forced to step aside into the entryway to wait for a gap to appear in the press of servants running to and fro with platters of food. A little way behind him, two merchants of the town had been standing, conversing quietly in low tones. Presumably they were there on matters of supplying provisions to the castle and were waiting to speak to the Haye steward. At first Gianni had taken no notice of them, but then the context of their discourse had intrigued him and he had edged closer, hoping to hear more, counting on the dense throng of scurrying servants to conceal the fact that he was listening. He had stood some minutes thus, then slid silently away before his eavesdropping became obvious.

  Now, as he crossed the Fossdyke, dodging carts laden with supplies and mounted travellers bound for Lincoln or the Torksey road, he ruminated on his decision to leave the castle without his master’s knowledge. It was the first time he had ever done such a thing, and was an action he had never even once contemplated from the day the Templar had rescued him from starvation. But his reasons were simple. He knew that his master was beginning to feel a desire to rejoin the Templar Order. When Bascot had returned to the castle after spending the night at the preceptory, it was obvious how much he had enjoyed the visit with his former comrades. He had spoken longingly to Ernulf of old friends he had met and the battles they had discussed. At first Gianni had been angry and felt betrayed, but he had not let it show, for he knew that would hurt his master and be harsh repayment for all the largesse the Templar had bestowed on him. But, if his master should go back to the Order, Gianni would be forced to fend for himself, and he was ill equipped to do so.

  At Lincoln castle he had a place he belonged and where food and warm clothing were in plentiful supply. But if the Templar went away, there would be no more use for his servant within the castle walls. Ernulf might take pity on him and feed him for a while, but it was more probable he would be thrown out of the castle gates, his only option to beg on the streets. To ensure that such a fate did not overtake him, he must make himself valuable to others besides his master. If he could un
cover some information that would lead to finding out the identity of the man who had murdered the squire, and do so without the Templar’s help, then Lady Nicolaa might realise his worth, perhaps even give him a place in her retinue. Under such influential patronage he need have no more fear of being homeless and hungry.

  This was the reason he had decided to steal away from the Templar, to try to find out if the gossip he had overheard that morning was the truth. The dairymaid, Bettina, would be able to tell him, or one of the other people in the village. Gianni was sure the priest of the hamlet, Samson, was literate. There had been scraps of parchment and a quill pen on a shelf in the tiny chapel where Bascot had spoken to the villagers. Since Gianni had been taught to read and write by the Templar, he could, through Samson, ask the questions that would prove the validity of the tale he had overheard. If it was true, then he was sure he had discovered a lie that had been told. He remembered when, earlier that year, he and his master had tracked down a murderer in Lincoln town, and how the Templar had come upon the truth by unmasking the lies that had been told; and the manner in which one lie had led to another, and yet another, until all was revealed. Perhaps he could do the same thing now, on his own.

  As Gianni left the Fossdyke and struck out across the marshy land to the west, he hastened his steps. It was a long way to Bettina’s village and he would need to get there and back again before the Templar found he was missing. As he ran he pictured in his imaginative young mind the accolades that would be heaped on his head if he was successful in his quest. Already he was gaining fast in literacy, due to the lessons the Templar had been giving him. After today, he would be praised not only for his learning, but also for his quick mind. One day soon, he assured himself, he would be trusted with tasks of importance, perhaps even, in time, become a secretarius to Lady Nicolaa herself. His inability to speak would be of little significance, he would be prized as a servant of the highest rank, and it would all be due to the conversation he had overheard that day.