Death of a Squire tk-2 Read online

  He was quite near the village now, but hastily turned back on the path to retrace his steps. He had gone only a short distance when he heard a rustling sound from somewhere behind him. To Gianni, the forest was as much a foreign country as England had been when he first came. All his young life had been spent in a city, and he knew the smells and sounds that could threaten from a dark alley or a shadowy doorway as well as he knew the fingers of his own hands. But here, among the towering shafts of tree trunks and the grating noise of winter-stripped branches swaying in the wind, it was as though he were in an alien land. He began to panic. Was the noise he heard just some small harmless animal, or was it something larger, like one of those ferocious wild pigs that the lords hunted with dogs and spears? It could even be a wolf. Fear coursed through his veins as his imagination leaped. In his mind’s eye he could see fangs, dripping with saliva, reaching for his throat.

  He tried to hurry, heedless of the direction in which he was going, such was his sudden desperation to get back to the familiar walls of Lincoln castle. Completely gone were his dreams of the morning envisioning how he would be commended for his cleverness, how he would solve, all on his own, the mystery of who had murdered the squire. The turmoil of his thoughts was interrupted when he suddenly found himself on an unfamiliar path and was unsure of the way he should take. How he wished he were back in the soldiers’ barracks with the reassuring bulk of the Templar at his side. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself.

  It was as he stood thus, small body tensed with concentration, that the noise came again, closer this time, and louder. Before he could turn to see what it was that threatened him, the world went black as a rough sack was thrust over his head and his flailing wrists were caught in a vice-like grip. His efforts to free himself were short-lived. Within the space of a breath, his hands were bound and he was thrown up onto his captor’s shoulder.

  It was warm in the chamber where Alys sat reading to Baldwin. A brazier burned in the corner and heavy rugs of wool and sheepskin had been placed on the floor to exclude drafts. Baldwin was wrapped in a blanket from the knees down, and seated in a cushioned chair with a high back. He listened in contentment as his betrothed read from a Psalter, her voice stumbling slightly when she came upon an unfamiliar word. Alys had come late to literacy, unlike Baldwin and his sister, Alinor, who had both been taught to read at a young age. There were still many nobles who could not read or write, but as realisation of the enjoyment and power that literacy could bring became more commonplace, it was becoming the fashion to have children of both sexes taught their letters by a household cleric or priest.

  “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’” Alys’s light, even tone faltered a little as she read the passage aloud, then seemed to fade altogether as she continued, “‘My help cometh from the Lord…’” Atthese last words, she bent her head and broke unashamedly into tears.

  Baldwin quickly removed the wrappings from his knees and came to her side. “Alys, what is it? Are you ill?”

  The young boy, sick so often himself, was ever solicitous of illness in another, and he put his thin arm around the girl’s shoulder and lifted her head with his hand. Her eyes swam with tears, but she shook her head. “No, I am not ill; at least, not in body.”

  “Then what is the matter?” Baldwin stroked her hand tenderly. Although she was older than he by four years, he seemed the more mature, the long hours spent in bed with his recurring sickness having given him ample time to reflect on the nature of life and its troubles.

  “I cannot tell you, Baldwin,” Alys said. “It is a terrible matter, but it was confided to me by another and I do not wish to break a trust.”

  “A trust is indeed a heavy honour,” Baldwin agreed, going across to a table and bringing her a small goblet of spiced cordial from a jug that stood there. “But if the burden is too great, it will be easier if it is shared. You know that I will not break any confidence you divulge to me.”

  Alys sipped at the soothing drink and regarded the slight figure in front of her. She had always been a little in awe of Baldwin, in a way she was not of either his parents or his sister. He was so learned, and so pure, and his faith in God was of a strength rarely found in priests, let alone her elders. Her fears for Alain and the worry about his guilt had consumed her ever since she had spoken to Hugo. She had a need to confide in someone who would be able to tell her what, if anything, she could do to protect her brother, someone to allay her fear for him. Baldwin was kind, he was to be her husband one day, and she knew him to be trustworthy. Taking a deep breath, she told him what Hugo had said and about Hubert, stumbling over the part about the day the squire had propositioned her, but telling it all just the same.

  Baldwin listened until she finished, his only reaction a frown as she told of Hubert placing his hand upon her breast, but he gave her a reassuring smile and nodded for her to continue. When she was done, he neither censured her nor did he reprimand her for keeping the matter secret. His trust in her honesty was complete.

  When she was done, he poured himself a cup of cordial and resumed his seat, pulling the blanket over his legs before sitting silent and deep in thought for some minutes. Alys waited, used to the way he would mull over facts before making a judgement, and feeling a sense of relief in the telling, as though the weight of a millstone had been taken from her back.

  “There is no proof in this story that your brother had anything to do with Hubert’s death,” he said finally and, when she started to interrupt him, held up his hand. “Although it may be that he lied to your cousin, the reason could be entirely different from the one Hugo ascribes to it. And there is only one way for you to find that out, Alys, and that is to ask Alain yourself.”

  Alys leaned forward, gripping him by the hand. “I cannot, Baldwin. Alain will be angry with Hugo, and Hugo will be angry with me for breaking his confidence. Besides, if Alain and Renault did have anything to do with Hubert’s death, they might not admit it, even to me.”

  “Then I will ask your brother on your behalf, and I will also ask that he swear on his honour to tell me the truth.”

  At the dismay in Alys’s face, Baldwin reassured her, and stroked the hand that held his so tightly. “You are to be my wife, Alys. It is my duty to sustain you. If Alain is innocent, he has nothing to fear. If he is not, then we will ask God for guidance in the matter. We must trust in the Lord, Alys. Have you not just read that He is our keeper? He will show us what is to be done.”

  Nineteen

  As it came up to the hour for the evening meal Bascot realised that Gianni had been missing for a long time. He went in search of the boy, looking in all the likely places he was to be found and enquiring if anyone had seen him. Finally he went to Ernulf and asked if he would question the guards that had been on duty at the castle gates that morning.

  “Perhaps he left the castle precincts on some errand or other and, if he did, they may have seen him leave,” Bascot said. “Although it is unlike Gianni to go anywhere without telling me, it is possible he may have done so. But if he did go out into the town or the cathedral he should have been back long ago. He would not miss the evening meal. I have been to the kitchens. The cook has not seen him, nor have any of the scullions. If the last food he had was when we broke our fast this morning, he will be sore hungry by now.”

  Ernulf took the matter as seriously as the Templar. “Aye, you’re right. The lad likes his victuals. He would not willingly miss a meal. I’ll ask my men if any of them have seen him.”

  When their enquiries were all answered in the negative, they searched the castle more thoroughly, going through the stables, the armoury and all the outbuildings, even poking about amongst the huge sacks in the food store in case Gianni had crept in there for warmth and fallen asleep. The hour for the evening repast came and went, and still there was no sign of him.

  “I am certain some mischief has befallen him,” Bascot said to Ernulf as they stood in the middle of the bailey
under a sky now almost fully dark. “It must have done. There is no other explanation.”

  The serjeant nodded, his seamed face as worried as the Templar’s. “It’s too late tonight to search anymore. But if he does not turn up by morning, I’ll have my lads scout around outside the walls and over the Fossdyke. He is not within the bail, else we would have found him, so he must be somewhere outside.”

  Bascot acknowledged the truth of the serjeant’s words and added, “If he is, Ernulf, he is not there of his own volition. Of that I am certain.”

  Not only Gianni missed the evening meal. At the hour when trestle tables were being erected in the hall and laid with clean linen cloths, Nicolaa was sitting in her private chamber listening to her nephew Baldwin tell what he had discovered that afternoon from Alys, and how he had questioned both Alain and Renault.

  “They both swore to me they had nothing to do with Hubert’s death, Aunt, although Alain did go out that night with the intent of waylaying him and giving him a sound thrashing for his treatment of Alys. Renault was privy to his purpose and, when Alain did not return, he followed to find out what had happened. But Alain could not find Hubert. He knew the squire had left the castle by the western gate just after sunset, riding one of Uncle William’s sumpter ponies and, since Hubert had been bragging earlier of a wench that he said was panting for his company, both Alain and Renault assumed that he had gone to keep a tryst with the girl. They expected him to return before curfew was called. Alain waited just outside the main gate until the gateward’s horn was blown to signal that the entrance would be shut, and then he and Renault kept watch for Hubert from inside the ward, thinking he would use the postern gate when he returned. They stayed there until the early hours of the morning and it was nearly dawn before they returned to their pallets in the hall. That is their explanation of why they were gone for most of the night. When the squire was discovered murdered, they decided it would be best to say nothing of their vigil, lest they be suspected of something in which they had no part.”

  Baldwin’s tone was earnest as he continued, “I am certain they are telling the truth, Aunt, for they swore that it was so on my holy relic of St. Elfric’s finger bone.” Baldwin’s pale face was shining with perspiration. The anxiety Alys’s revelation had caused, and his subsequent interview with the two squires had distressed him, and he could feel his chest tightening in the way it did before one of the attacks of breathlessness overtook him. With difficulty, he held it in check, determined to finish the task he had set himself before he gave in to the ailment.

  Nicolaa had listened carefully to what Baldwin had told her, and how he had come at his own suggestion and at the request of both Alain and Renault to ask her advice on what they should now do. She also saw the familiar signs of her nephew’s affliction start to show itself, and called for one of her servants to come and help him to his chamber.

  “Be assured I will deal with this, Baldwin, and also be certain that if they are telling the truth, they will not be reprimanded, except perhaps for the misdemeanour of not being forthright with their elders. But now you must rest. Leave the matter with me and do not speak of it to anyone else, and caution Alys that she must do the same.”

  Baldwin accepted his aunt’s directions gratefully and went to his chamber, leaning heavily on the arm of the servant, his breath labouring as he went. Once he had left the room, Nicolaa sat back down at the table she used for dealing with correspondence. She would need to tell Gerard and William what Baldwin had related to her, but first she needed to think. Were the two squires telling the truth? Baldwin was very sure, but he was an honest soul, to whom swearing a falsehood on a relic would be anathema. But she knew that such an act of blasphemy was not uncommon; it had been perpetrated many times, even by kings. And the boy wanted to protect his betrothed, Alys, from the pain she would feel if her brother were found to be guilty of such a heinous act as murder. Finally, she took up a sheet of parchment and drew forward the quill and inkpot that were always on the table. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell Gerard and his brother of Baldwin’s tale. For tonight she would keep it to herself, safely recorded and hidden out of sight.

  Gianni had not returned by morning. Bascot and Ernulf had sat up nearly all the night, in case the boy should appear from some cranny in the castle grounds that had been missed in their search. When dawn came both the Templar and the serjeant were haggard and worried.

  Ernulf sent some of his men to search the area outside the gates and down into the town. Those men-at-arms who were off duty volunteered their help to swell the ranks of searchers. Gianni was popular with the men, not only because he accepted his inability to speak with equanimity, but also because he was an orphan, a condition that plucks at the hearts of all men who follow the profession of soldier. Again the buildings in the bailey were thoroughly checked, servants questioned once more, menials that came from outside the castle for daily work within its walls were asked if they had seen Gianni on their journey, and even the pens containing fowl and sheep were inspected.

  It wasn’t until just after mid-morning that one of the guards on the wall came running to where Bascot and Ernulf were making another search of the old keep. “We’ve found someone who saw a lad that might have been Gianni, serjeant,” the soldier said. “A carter, bringing a load of wood for the cook’s oven. We’ve told him to wait until you can speak to him.”

  “Where did he see this boy?” Bascot asked, following as the man-at-arms set off back in the direction from which he had come. Ernulf was right behind him.

  “That’s what’s strange, Sir Bascot,” the soldier replied. “The man said the lad was on the other side of the Fossdyke, going into the forest. What would Gianni have been doing out there?” The man-at-arms gave the Templar a sidelong glance. “It’s possible the carter is mistaken. It may have been some other boy he saw. He doesn’t know Gianni by sight, only said he’d seen a youngster that looked about his size.”

  The carter was waiting with his load of wood just inside the entrance to the west gate. He was sitting patiently, leaning against the pile of logs at his back, chewing on a piece of straw. When he saw Bascot, he straightened a little, but did not get down from his seat.

  “The boy you saw, what did he look like?” Bascot asked shortly.

  “Didn’t get a right good look at him, sir. Wouldn’t have noticed him at all except it seemed strange for a little lad like that to be outside the city walls all on his own at this time of year.” The man chewed ruminatively on the straw, not noticing Bascot’s impatience. “He wasn’t very tall,” he finally said, “and was as skinny as a sapling. About ten or eleven years old, I’d say. Had a peculiar hat on his head, like a soldier would wear on a march in cold weather. Couldn’t see what he looked like ’cause the hat hid his face and hair. But he was skipping along right merrily and kept looking over his shoulder.”

  “What time of the morning was this?” Bascot asked, sure from the description of Ernulf’s hat that the boy the carter had seen had been Gianni.

  The carter looked up at the sky. “A little earlier than it is right now. I was just coming with my load; allus do on the same two days of the week. The wood’s part of my fee as tenant to Lady Nicolaa…”

  “Did you see him go into the forest?” Bascot interrupted, impatient with the man’s slowness.

  The carter shook his head. “Had no reason to watch him, did I? He was headed that way and I gave him a passing glance, that’s all. I had to get on with my load, the traffic on the Fossdyke gets heavier the later it gets, and I got work to do when I get back to my byre. Besides, it was Martinmas; there was to be a feast later on, I didn’t want to miss that. And right enjoyable it was, too; my old pig came up with a good load of fat. I can still taste the tripe my old woman made from his innards, well toothsome it was…”

  Bascot turned to Ernulf, ignoring the man’s pleasurable reminiscences. “I’ll need a couple of your men, Ernulf, to search the woods. Why he was out there, only the Good Lord knows
, but if he spent the night in the forest, he will be in dire straits from the cold. I pray to God he’s still alive.”

  Ernulf nodded and called to a couple of his men to follow as he and Bascot started off for the stables at a run.

  It was as mounts were being saddled that a priest from St. Mary Crackpole, a church at the lower end of Lincoln town near the Stonebow gate, came puffing up to the door of the stables. He was young, with a round face and a head of hair that was pale and sparse. In his hand he clutched a small and dirty piece of parchment, and he struggled to catch his breath as he leaned his portly frame on the edge of the wide stable door.

  “Sir Bascot? I am Father Michael, priest of St. Mary Crackpole. I have come to see you on a matter of importance.”

  Bascot barely paid the man any attention, thinking the cleric had come on some errand to do with the housing of guests during the king’s visit. Many of the visitors were to be given beds in properties owned by the church. “I have no time now, Father,” Bascot replied. “Go to the hall. Lady Nicolaa’s steward or her secretarius will be pleased to attend you.”

  The priest shook his head. “No, you do not understand, I have a message, given to one of my parishioners this morning. It is for you. And I believe it is urgent.”

  The priest paused and inhaled deeply as his breathing slowed. “It mentions the brigand Sheriff Camville is holding prisoner, and a boy. Perhaps the lad that one of the men-at-arms on the gate told me you are looking for.”

  Bascot’s head snapped up and Ernulf spun around from where he was adjusting the girth on one of the horses. “What is the message?” Bascot said tersely.

  “It is a written one. Here, on this piece of parchment.” The priest held out the soiled scrap of vellum to the Templar.

  Bascot unrolled it. Only a few words were printed in the middle of the torn and jagged square, the writing ill formed and the ink thin and splodgy.