The Alehouse Murders Page 13

  Sixteen

  BASCOT’S THOUGHTS WERE SCATTERED AND UNSETTLED after he left the solar. And he was angry. Questioning Sybil de Kyme and Conal had been humiliating for them, embarrassing for him. He knew he was ill-suited to the role of inquisitor. All those years of being subjected to the will of his Saracen captors had made him very reluctant to expose any other person to an invasion of their privacy, even if such an intrusion was sanctioned by the sheriff and his wife. But such interrogations were justified, a necessary task that must be performed in order to try and find the murderer of those innocents in the alehouse, especially the unborn babe. It seemed to him that their souls were crying out for vengeance. His discomfiture—and that of Sybil and Conal—was of little measure when set beside the heinous act that had been perpetrated.

  He motioned for Gianni to accompany him and walked across the bailey in the direction of the stables. Earlier, it had been his intention to ride out to Philip de Kyme’s manor and talk to both the baron and his secretarius, William Scothern, and perhaps have a look at the letters from the dead boy’s mother. Now, instead, he felt a need to be away from the whole question of who had murdered the victims in the alehouse, and for a brief space put aside the task which Nicolaa de la Haye had given him so that he might perhaps be able to bring a semblance of order to the disquiet of his mind.

  Crossing the crowded bailey he stopped briefly at the barracks to enquire if Ernulf had been successful in his trip to Butwerk to bring in the stewe-holder, Brunner. Relieved at being told that the serjeant had not yet returned, he walked through the huge gate that was the eastern entry into the castle grounds and crossed the wooden bridge leading down to street level.

  Lincoln had resumed the frenzied activity that had begun during the opening parade as the business of the fair entered its second day. Across from the castle the crowds were thick in the precincts of the cathedral and as Bascot passed through Bailgate and started to walk down Steep Hill, he was hard-pressed to push through the crowds of people gathered about stalls and the open fronts of shops. There were entertainers everywhere; strolling players, performing dogs, jugglers, even a shambling old bear being baited by two or three mangy dogs in front of St. Michael’s church. The bear, its muzzle haltered by a leather snaffle, was lackadaisical in its response to the wary bravado of its attackers, ignoring the snapping and snarling of its tormentors and raising a paw only when one of the dogs would overcome fear and make a dash towards him. The crowd was heckling the bearward, offering to find him a pig or a goat as replacement for his bear, yelling that even a goose would be superior as an adversary for the dogs. Bascot edged past the throng while Gianni, as usual, kept pace at his right hand. The boy knew his master’s blindness on that side could make him unaware of an imminent collision with a passerby or the encroachment of a nimble-handed thief. He had also noticed Bascot’s dark mood and wanted to prevent any such upset from deepening it.

  As they pushed their way down the sharp incline Bascot cursed his ankle, which had begun to ache. The air was filled with the cries of vendors, the raucous hum of voices raised to be heard above the din and the acrid aroma of human sweat, animal dung and fish guts. This last was from High Market on Spring Hill, a winding street that led off Steep Hill where the fishmongers of Lincoln kept their stalls. In an attempt to escape the press of people Bascot veered off the main thoroughfare, going past the Drapery where the cloth merchants and their customers milled like bees around a hive, and across the top of Parchmingate into the comparative quiet of Hungate. This street led to an intersection with Brancegate, a larger street that crossed the main road of Mikelgate. Since Hungate was nearer the city wall and the residents were mainly merchants selling less expensive items such as household implements, blankets and napery, it was not as congested as the streets they had left behind. Most of the items here would not attract those with a lot of silver to spend and so there were fewer street hawkers and the shop owners had, in the main part, put up the shutters over the casements of the bottom floor of their houses and were displaying their wares by spreading them over a counter just inside the opening. To guard against thieving, the merchant would usually stand outside on the street while a member of his family watched from within.

  Many of the shops had a variety of goods for sale since most of the houses were of three stories and occupied on each level by a different family, or two or three, engaged in varying occupations. Such houses had combined their wares, laying them out carefully side by side, and took turns at guarding and selling. The customers meandering down this street were of a less pretentious sort, clothed in sober garments of russet brown or dark green, the women with plain white coifs covering their hair and the men with simple leather caps on their heads. They inspected the goods carefully, the women judiciously fingering small cloths for wrapping cheese or making swaddling bands while their husbands carefully examined the iron that had been used in making nails or carpentry tools for flaws.

  To ease the ache in his ankle, Bascot stopped underneath the cloth awning of a leather worker. There were several pairs of soft shoes laid out on the counter along with a few purses and belts. Nearby, a young man clad in a leather apron was punching holes in pieces of leather with an awl. When Bascot approached, he shoved his work into a large pocket in the front of his apron and gave his prospective customer a smile. His long yellow teeth and narrow face gave him a horselike appearance and his voice, when he spoke, was also similar to the high-pitched neighing of a steed, rising and falling in quavering tones. Bascot would not have been surprised if he had whinnied in accompaniment.

  “Some fine pieces I’ve got here, sir,” he said deferentially, glancing obliquely at Bascot’s Templar badge. “And belts and wrist-guards made to your order, if you wish.”

  Bascot gave him a nod in response, then picked up a pair of shoes and idly examined them. Behind the counter stood a woman, older, with teeth curved in the same equine smile as the young man’s. She bobbed her head at Bascot in courtesy, then spoke in a voice that was surprisingly sweet in contrast to the lad’s. “We make good boots, too, sir. My husband could make you a pair that would serve you far better than those you’re wearing. Could even pad the left one to ease your pain.”

  Surprised at the quickness of her observation, for he must only have been in her view for a few limping paces, Bascot laughed amiably and asked her the cost.

  “One mark,” she replied promptly, “with an extra ten pence for the padding.”

  Bascot grimaced at the price. Since he had agreed to carry out some duties for Lady Nicolaa she had insisted on paying him the rate her household knights received, ten pence a day, but except for a few pieces of silver he kept about him for immediate expenses he had not touched the money, leaving it with the Haye steward against the time he might return to the Templar Order and, in accordance with his vow of poverty, pay it into their coffers. The amount the shoemaker’s wife had mentioned represented more than a month of his earnings. Could he truly justify spending such a sum for his own comfort?

  The shoemaker’s wife saw his hesitation and added quickly, “They would be well worth the cost. My husband is an expert at his trade.”

  She turned and gestured behind her to the back of the long low-ceilinged room that comprised the first floor of the house, to where an elderly man sat at his workbench. He had a small hammer in his hand which he was using to soften a piece of leather stretched over a last held between his knees. “If you will come through, sir,” the woman said, “my husband will show you a sample of his work.”

  Attracted by her promise and feeling the need to rest his leg for a moment, Bascot accepted the invitation. Gianni trailed behind him to where the cobbler sat. The shoemaker immediately got up and put his work aside as soon as he saw them come in, pushing forward a chair for Bascot. The cobbler was a small man with clear blue eyes and legs permanently crooked to the shape of his stool. His pate was bald, covered with skin the colour of nutmeg, but he had arms that were strong and wiry beneath the sh
ort sleeves of his tunic, with corded muscles roping his forearms.

  Once Bascot was seated, the cobbler knelt in front of him and, with surprising gentleness, removed the Templar’s left boot and placed the bared foot on his own curved thigh. As Gianni looked on curiously, he ran his fingers over Bascot’s injured ankle, and nodded his head in a knowing manner.

  “That was a nasty injury, sir.”

  “It is mended as well as ever it will be, I think,” Bascot replied. “Sometimes I bind it with strips of linen, but that does not seem to be much help.”

  “No, linen will not do any good,” the cobbler said. “It firms but does not strengthen. It is here and here you need support.” He placed his fingers one on each side of Bascot’s ankle and pushed lightly with a soft pressure. Bascot could feel the benefit almost immediately.

  “Can you make me a boot that will do what your fingers have just done?” he asked.

  “I can, sir. Small pads, one on each side, made from the soft underbelly of a calf. You will not even know they are there, except that your pain will be lessened.”

  “For that, shoemaker, I would be most grateful.” The lure of relief from the almost constant ache was too great a temptation to resist. He decided to purchase the boots. “How long would it take you to make them?”

  The cobbler glanced at his Templar badge. “For you, sir, I will do them straight away. They will be ready in two days’ time.”

  Bascot nodded his acceptance and, while the cobbler took the measurements of his feet with the aid of a long piece of leather marked with notches at regular intervals, looked to where Gianni had been distracted by a pair of shoes that were lying on the cobbler’s workbench. They were about the boy’s size and had been decorated with a row of red beads sewn along the seam at the front of the shoe. Gianni was turning one of the shoes around and around between his fingers, touching the beads gently in admiration. Bascot smiled in amusement at the boy’s interest. The shoes Gianni was wearing were the only ones he had and, albeit still sturdy, had soles that were wearing thin.

  “How much for the shoes the boy has there?” he asked the cobbler. If he was going to indulge himself, it might ease his conscience if he gave his servant a similar pleasure. Gianni’s head snapped up as Bascot spoke.

  The shoemaker glanced over his shoulder and then called to his wife. “I only do the work,” he said apologetically, “my wife sets the prices.”

  “You are a wise man, shoemaker,” Bascot said with a grin as the cobbler’s wife came bustling from her place at the front counter after giving the young man, who was obviously their son, instructions to keep his eyes sharp in looking after her wares.

  Gianni listened anxiously as the cobbler’s wife examined the shoes in question. “They were made for another customer,” she explained to Bascot, “but have not been called for. If these fit your servant, I will let you have them for five silver pennies. If my husband has to make new ones, then it will be another half-penny on top.”

  “Agreed,” Bascot said, and watched with stifled laughter as Gianni grabbed the shoes and, kicking off his old scuffed ones, pushed his feet into the pair decorated with the red beads. Delighted, he danced around the room, his mouth stretched wide into a grin and his fingers snapping loudly while the black curls on his head bobbed from side to side with his movements. Both the cobbler and his wife watched in amazement, and the wife asked, “He does not speak, sir. Is it that he cannot?”

  “He is a mute,” Bascot confirmed.

  The wife clucked her tongue in sympathy and the cobbler gave a sad shake of his bald head. “He is a handsome lad, sir,” he said. “And fortunate to have such a kind master as yourself. I am glad the shoes fit him.”

  “So am I,” Bascot replied as he dug in his purse for the money with which to pay the cobbler for Gianni’s shoes and a small deposit to show good faith for the commission of his boots.

  As he and Gianni left the shop Bascot felt a release of the tension that had gripped him earlier. But he was not yet ready to visit Philip de Kyme and decided instead, since it was nearing the time for the midday meal, to walk down to Brancegate where Lincoln’s butchers sold their wares. There would be pies and pasties for sale and hopefully a baker’s stall with some good white manchet bread to go with them.

  Gianni capered along all the way, kicking out his feet to admire his new shoes, even turning a somersault at one point which made a couple of young maidens passing by giggle into cupped hands as his tunic flew up and exposed the baggy linen drawers he wore underneath. As they approached the market, however, the boy’s interest turned to food. The butchers had erected more tables than usual to accommodate the influx of additional trade, and their apprentices were darting everywhere, engaged in filling orders for delivery, waving leafy branches to keep flies from their master’s work, or strutting with importance as they proffered live caged birds for the scrutiny of a prospective buyer. The noise here was as deafening as it had been earlier on the upper stretch of Steep Hill, this time with the squawking of ducks and geese, the squealing of piglets and the bleating of a dozen lambs shut up in a pen. Stray dogs yelped and snarled at one another as they vied for any gob-bet of meat that was accidentally dropped and half-wild cats prowled around the edge, keeping a wary eye on the dogs and the apprentices as they, too, searched for food. Over it all hung the smell of blood, pungent in the summer heat, emanating not only from the butcher’s stalls but also from the malodorous mixture of discarded feathers and offal that was clogging the refuse channel running down the middle of the street. Stepping carefully over the rank mess Bascot headed for a stall that was crowded with people buying pastry coffins filled with meat and gravy. He also bought, from a young serving maid with bright eyes and heat-flushed cheeks, some pease pudding that had been rolled into balls and skewered on splinters of wood. A loaf of fine manchet bread purchased from the wicker basket of a roving baker’s apprentice completed the makings for their meal and it remained only to find a quiet spot in which to eat it.

  It was just as they had found an empty space by the wall of St. Martin’s church that Bascot heard his name called.

  “Hola, de Marins,” the voice roared over the din of the crowd. Bascot turned to see the captain of Gerard Camville’s guard, Roget, coming towards him, the crowd parting like melting cheese before his tall, thickset figure and badge of office. Roget had a girl hanging on his arm whom Bascot recognised as one of the serving wenches from the castle. She was young, no more than fifteen, and pretty in a full-blown way that would, with maturity, turn to obesity. She was gazing up at Roget with admiring eyes, simpering when he looked at her, and swinging her body in a way that showed she relished the company of such a prize.

  “I have been looking for you, de Marins,” Roget said. “Ernulf asked me to give you a message. The stewe-holder Brunner has flown from his perch and taken the harlot, Gillie, with him. Ernulf has taken some of my men to aid him in a search for the pair.” He threw back his head and grinned, amusement sparking in his eyes. “I think it will give Ernulf great pleasure to take hold of Brunner. Although I do not believe that the stewe-holder will get any enjoyment from the meeting.”

  “I think you are right,” Bascot replied. “Ernulf has an intense dislike of the man.”

  Roget dropped down onto the ground beside Bascot, leaning his back against one of the barrels of water that had been placed along the base of the church wall as they were in other convenient places about the town, for use in case of fire. After taking a long pull from the wine skin he was carrying, he passed it to the Templar who took a drink and passed it back. The serving wench, impatient at Roget’s ignoring her for the moment, pulled at his arm.

  “Here, ma belle,” he said, giving her the wine skin. “Drink deep, my pretty one. You will need to keep your spirits up for later.” He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a great squeeze, then pushed her to her feet, patting her on the rump as he did so. Pressing some coins into her hand, he said, “Now, go and amuse yourself
for a space. Wait for me at the alehouse on the corner. And see that you do not find any gawky lads to keep you company. I do not take kindly to having another enjoy a morsel I want for myself.”

  The girl gave him an uncertain look, then glanced at Bascot and Gianni and decided to do as she was told. She walked away with hips swaying under the folds of her kirtle.

  “A toothsome piece,” Roget said, “but her company is tedious. Still,” he shrugged saying, “there are few women whose conversation interests me. It is only their bodies I find enjoyable.”

  Bascot made no reply. Besides the vow of poverty he had taken when he had joined the Templars he had also taken one of obedience and another of chastity. The purchase of the boots had been the cause of breaking the first and his vow of obedience had been broken when he had voiced his doubts about his fitness for the Templar Order. So far, the vow of chastity remained unsoiled. That he had kept these ten long years, although he had to admit that his capture and subsequent imprisonment had made the vow easier to keep. He still remembered the feel of the lambskin girdle and sheepskin drawers a Templar donned when he took his oath. They were never to be taken off, not even for washing either the garments or the body, so that an initiate would not be tempted by their absence into the sin of lust. At first, Bascot had felt proud to be part of such a strict ethic, but as the weeks and months wore on and he travelled to the Holy Land in the blazing heat, the stench of his own sweat mingled with the rancid smell of sheep oil had finally overcome him and he had been taken with a vomiting fever which had lasted for seven days. He had to admit that the only enjoyable aspect of his imprisonment had been when the Saracens had stripped him of his Christian clothes, including the girdle and drawers. And he had never donned those two particular items of Templar apparel again, not even when he had arrived in England and had been welcomed back by the Order. Now, Roget’s remark had reminded him of the stir he had felt in his loins when Scothern’s sister, Isobel, had gazed at him with her heavy-lidded amber eyes. Inwardly, he mumbled a prayer for strength.