Death of a Squire tk-2 Read online

  Alain moved forward into the midst of the group. “These speculations are not profitable, nor are they just. It is clear that none of us had any love for Hubert or are sorry he is dead. And if we feel this way, there must be many others not of our household who feel the same. But we must be wary of what we tell the Templar. Suspicion is easily cast on an innocent person. To be circumspect is the only honourable course.”

  “And the most advisable,” Renault commented wryly. “The less that is made of this matter, the better for all of us. Even the little ones know that it would hardly help the reputation of any of us here, or that of our families, to be suspected of secret murder. I do not intend to risk losing the chance of winning my spurs for such a one as Hubert, whether he be alive or dead.”

  Although Alain gave his friend an angry glance for the baldness of his words, the rest of the boys nodded to each other in agreement; Osbert and Rufus enthusiastically. All, that is, except Hugo. He only gave his cousin Alain a surreptitious glance filled with fear, then bowed his head before it should be noticed, and resumed his mournful contemplation of the musty trampled rushes beneath his feet.

  Four

  Bascot’s talk with William Camville’s pages and squires left him feeling both amused and confused.

  All of the young men and boys had denied any knowledge of the reason Hubert had been out in the forest on the night he had been murdered. When Bascot had suggested that the person or persons who had killed the squire might not have been outlaws, but someone known to the dead boy, they had all easily accepted that as a possibility.

  Their general dislike of the dead squire had been evident in the way they had spoken of him, but none had admitted to having a particular grudge against him, nor of knowing anyone who had. This seemed an unlikely proposition in view of how disagreeable they had made Hubert sound. Only Osbert had offered any information that might be of interest. Hubert had, the page proclaimed, often boasted of his prowess with women, bragging that once he had bedded a wench she could not wait for more of the same.

  “I don’t know if what he said was true, Sir Bascot,” Osbert had added, his small face quite serious. “Especially since his bollocks and shaft weren’t much bigger than mine. But it could be that he was meeting a lover in the woods, and was perhaps discovered by an outraged husband who took his revenge.” Osbert had glanced, almost defiantly, at the two eldest squires, Alain and Renault, as he said this, but their faces had remained impassive.

  Bascot had been hard put to hide a smile at the boy’s words, but they had made him pause for thought. It was possible that Hubert had strayed into a relationship that had led to his death, but it was hard to believe that it would have been with anyone he had met in the few days he had been in Lincoln. Did he know someone from previous visits? Perhaps Hubert had already been acquainted with a woman from the town or in the retinues of nobles come to attend the king’s visit. It was a suggestion worth pursuing.

  Making his way down to the hall to talk to the forester who had found the squire’s body, Bascot cast his mind back to the days when he had been the same age as Hubert. He had been spared the necessity of going to the household of one of his father’s peers to train for knighthood since he had spent much of his younger days within the walls of a monastery, having been placed there as an oblate-an offering for Christ-to prepare for the day when he would take his vows as a monk. It had not been until he was well past Osbert’s age that his father had removed him, one of Bascot’s older brothers having died, leaving a gap, which his sire had been anxious to fill. But still Bascot could remember how he had felt when he had returned home and begun to practice with sword and lance. Despite his reluctance to leave the monks, he had been excited, full of the joy of young manhood and anxious to indulge in all the pleasures he had so far been denied in his life behind the monastery walls. Wine had tasted sweet, as had platters full of roasted venison and boar, and the most delicious of all had been sampling the charms of the many willing women servants on his father’s demesne. There had not been many ready to deny a son of their lord his pleasure, or their own. It was not until he had taken his vow of chastity as a Templar that he had eschewed the charms of women and, although he had never broken his pledge, the temptation at times had been hard to resist. But as a young man he had not viewed it as a transgression, and had indulged the hot blood that rose at the sight of a softly curved breast or a slim ankle as readily as Hubert had apparently done. None had been wife to another man, however, but still, Osbert’s opinion might bear merit.

  In the hall he found the forester, Tostig, in the company of Ernulf, drinking ale. When Bascot approached, the serjeant introduced them. The forester was a tall man, clad in a leather jerkin over a green tunic and hose, with stout boots on his feet and a handsome strongly boned face that had been weathered by the elements. His hands, although calloused, were large and well shaped. On his left forearm he wore a leather bracer, used by archers to strengthen the aim of an arrow shot. At his feet lay a dog, a lymer hound, its keen eyes surveying Bascot dolefully as he approached. Ernulf told Bascot that Tostig had been employed as a mounted forester by Gerard Camville for the last fifteen years and that his bailiwick-the area in which he carried out his duties-was the chase granted by the king to the sheriff for his own use.

  “It was the birds that told me something was amiss,” Tostig said in answer to Bascot’s question as to how he had come to discover the body. “Gathered and circling like the carrion eaters they are. I thought it could be a dead animal and went to investigate. I found the deer first, the carcass half-buried under leaves. But then I noticed that the birds hadn’t disturbed it much and looked around, thinking there might be another one slaughtered nearby.”

  He took a swig from the ale in his mug, swallowed, then spat among the rushes on the floor. “Made my gorge rise when I looked up and saw what those damned crows had been feasting on,” he told Bascot. “The lad’s face was almost gone, and they’d been at his body, too, pecking through his clothes.”

  He shook his head sadly and crossed himself before continuing. “They still kept watch even after I cut him down, landing near me and croaking like imps from hell, though my dog was doing his best to forestall them. So I wrapped the boy in his cloak, which was still pinned to his shoulders, slung him over my horse and carried him out of the woods. If I had left him there to get help, they would have been at him again.”

  “What about the boy’s own mount?” Bascot asked. “Surely he wouldn’t have gone into the forest on foot.”

  “Found it not too far from where the lad was strung up,” Tostig replied. “It was loose and came to follow me on my way back to the castle. The reins were knotted at the end, and trailing, as though the lad had left the horse loosely tethered somewhere.”

  Ernulf reached over and filled the man’s flagon again. Bascot waited until he had taken a deep drink, then asked, “Did you notice if there were any other marks on the boy’s body besides that made by the rope and the birds?”

  “You mean, had he been killed first, and then strung up?” Tostig asked. When Bascot nodded, the forester shook his head. “Apart from the damage done by the crows there was nothing else. Sir William and Sir Gerard stripped him themselves when I brought him in, looking for an answer to the same question, but there was no wound from a blade or arrow on his person or any mark on what was left of his head. Even allowing for the bird’s feasting, there would have been trace of damage if his skull had been caved in.”

  “Nothing at all?” Bascot persisted.

  The forester shook his head again. “As far as could be told it looks as though the boy just stood peaceful-like and let that noose be dropped over his head.”

  “Or else he didn’t struggle because he was faced with a greater threat,” Bascot said.

  The forester looked straight at him, “Like a sword or a bow, you mean?”

  Bascot nodded. “Either that or else he was taken by surprise before he had the opportunity to defend himself.”


  In a private upper chamber Gerard Camville and his brother sat sharing a cup of wine. They had just returned from the tract in the forest where Hubert had been found and, as they had expected, could locate nothing to indicate how the boy had come to be there or who had killed him. After a circuit of the perimeter of the chase they had called a halt for if outlaws had been the cause of the boy’s death, they had long since disappeared into the depths of Sherwood. Gerard was in a foul temper, which even the rough questioning of the inhabitants of a nearby village had done nothing to assuage. All had claimed not to have seen or heard anything, or to have known the identity of the dead boy. Threats to take some of the young men of the village into Lincoln castle for questioning had elicited no further information. Finally, Gerard, at his brother’s urging, had left them in peace and they had returned to Lincoln.

  “Bloody peasants, always the same. You’d think they were deaf and blind to all that goes on around them. Until you ask for a reckoning of their livestock or the grain yield from harvest. Then they know down to the last dead lamb and stray kernel of wheat just how much they owe to their lord, and all the while they’re stealing their masters blind.” Gerard poured himself another cup of wine and began to pace the chamber from one end to the other.

  “For the love of Christ, Gerard, sit down,” William expostulated. “I cannot talk to you while you roam about so. And talk we must. This death could become a serious problem.”

  William refilled his own wine cup, looking intently at his brother. Gerard had ceased his pacing and was standing by a small fireplace built into a corner of the wall, staring into the flames. The fireplace had a hood, in the latest fashion, and the applewood logs that burned in the open grate gave off a pleasant aroma. Gerard, however, gave no indication that he had heard his brother. He drank deep from his cup, then threw the lees of the wine into the fire before resuming his contemplation of the burning logs.

  “Gerard, this death-it has nothing to do with you, has it?” William asked softly.

  The sheriff turned and gave his brother a tight-lipped smile that held no humour. “You, too, Will? I thought my own brother would have more faith in me. Do you really believe I could be so base as to secretly murder a young stripling to advance my own ends?”

  William ignored his brother’s accusation and asked instead, “Has someone else spoken to you in this regard?”

  Gerard strode over to the table and poured more wine. “De Humez. Thinks because he is married to my wife’s sister he has the right to question me as though he were my liege lord.”

  William leaned back in his chair and spoke quietly, “You cannot blame us, Gerard. It is well known that you and the king are not complaisant with each other, and that it is only due to John’s regard for Nicolaa that he allows you to retain the offices and lands you hold.”

  “He was complaisant enough with me when he needed an ally against Longchamps, wasn’t he? Then I could do no wrong, even if I was defying the very chancellor his own brother had left to govern the realm while he was on crusade. And I lost my office when Richard returned while John, forgiven and indulged, did nothing to help me. That I got the shrievalty back eventually was not due to assistance from him, but because of the silver I paid for the privilege. And now I am expected to curry his favour in order to keep it, regardless of how much money it has cost me.”

  The sheriff crashed his fist down onto the table, setting the thick oak shivering. “John is devil’s spawn. And so was Richard. They killed their father between them. I was a fool ever to put my trust in either.”

  William knew how much his brother had loved King Henry and how much he missed him. He tried to placate the anger he could see rising in his sibling. “Perhaps you were foolish not to realise that neither prince has the integrity of their father, Gerard, but you had little choice as matters turned out. And Henry has been dead a long time. You cannot mourn his loss for ever. He was a good king and held you in high esteem, but now it is his son that is on the throne. You must be circumspect in your dealings with John.”

  “I will leave that to Nicolaa. She has a fondness for him, although only the Good Lord above knows why. And he returns her affection. I will leave his entertainment-and goodwill-to her.”

  “You still have not answered my question, Gerard,” William said, now standing to face his brother. “Did you have anything to do with this boy’s death? It is rumoured that he spoke of being in the confidence of men who favoured Arthur to be king of England. He could have been killed to dam his overflowing mouth. Were you one such as those of whom he spoke?”

  Gerard glowered at his brother. “I have as little use for John’s nephew filling his grandfather’s place as I had for Richard, or for John himself. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  William sat down again, glancing doubtfully up at his brother. “Yes, it is, Gerard. But if the king should ask you the same question, try to be more politic in how you frame your answer.”

  Five

  Bascot decided to visit the place where the boy had been found and asked Tostig to take him there. They left the castle in late afternoon, Bascot riding an easy-gaited grey gelding from the stables with Gianni on the pillion behind and the forester astride his own mount.

  Tostig took a path that led slightly southwest, towards the stretch of forest where Gerard Camville’s chase was located. As they rode, he told Bascot the hunting ground that had been granted to the sheriff began some two miles from Lincoln town and was bordered on the west by the Trent river and on the south by the slant of the old Roman road called the Fosse Way.

  “The royal chase, within which the sheriff’s own lies, is much larger, of course,” Tostig explained. “It extends a good way farther to the north and, in the south, down to the greenwood at Kesteven. There is a lot of good marshland for hawking and hunting smaller game within both, though, as well as a fair bit of timberland.”

  “Are there any villages in the sheriff’s chase?” Bascot asked.

  “Yes,” replied Tostig. “At the northern tip is a small one, just before the beginning of an open stretch of heath land. And there’s another, larger, hamlet adjacent to the southern boundary.”

  “Are either of these villages near where Hubert’s body was found?” Bascot asked.

  “The one in the north is,” Tostig replied. “It’s on the edge of Sir Gerard’s chase and the boy was not far into the forest from there.”

  “Is that where your quarters are located?” Bascot asked, knowing that in his position as a mounted forester Tostig would receive, as part payment for his services, shelter for himself, his horse and his dog.

  “No. ’Tis my right if I wished to do so, but Sir Gerard lets me stay in his hunting lodge. It’s more comfortable and I don’t have the villagers taking resentment at my presence amongst them. Since the royal chase is so close and they must have licence for any activities they would pursue there, they would always be wary that I might report them to the king’s agister or woodward if I should see them taking liberties.” The forester shrugged. “I pretend ignorance most times when they set loose a few more pigs to forage for acorns than are allowed, or perhaps take a coney for the pot, for I know what it is like to be hungry. But it would be more than my life is worth if I were to be too lax and they know it. So, to save their temper, and mine, I stay in the lodge.”

  “This lodge, is it near where Hubert was slain?”

  “Not the new one, the one where I keep my gear. There is an old lodge a little closer, but it’s ramshackle now and deserted.”

  “Were you abroad in the forest last night?” Bascot asked.

  The forester shook his head. “No, unfortunately, I was not. Yesterday I went to the southern part of the chase. One of Sir Gerard’s woodwards looks to that area mostly, as he has kin in the village nearby and stays with them so he is handy for the work. But I like to take a circuit there every few days to check and see that he’s doing his job as he should. My mare threw a shoe while I was down there and I had to seek a
blacksmith to replace it. By the time I got back to my lodgings it was well past the middle of the night. I wanted only to get my mare bedded down and find my own pallet. I did not leave the lodge until the morning was well on. That was when I saw the crows and found the boy.”

  When they reached the chase, Tostig took a path that was almost imperceptible to Bascot. It wound through the trees in no particular manner that the Templar could see, but before long they came to a track that was more defined, with plentiful piles of deer dung and hoofprints, mingled with the deeper marks of the shod feet of horses. The sheriff and his brother must have taken the same route. This track appeared to be well used by both man and beast. In the distance the ring of an axe sounded and there was the smell of smoke in the air.

  “It’s just a little way on from here,” Tostig flung back at Bascot over his shoulder. The narrow path had forced them to ride in single file and, as they neared the spot where the poached deer and Hubert’s body had been found, Bascot took care to look about him, telling Gianni to do the same. The boy may be mute, but his other senses were sharp, especially his eyes. With Bascot being blind on one side, he would have to depend on Gianni to notice anything he missed.

  Before long Tostig led them to a spot on the path where the slain deer still lay, half-buried under a hump of leaves. “I shall have to get help to remove the carcass. Looks like scavengers have already been at it.”

  Tostig dismounted and Bascot did the same, Gianni dropping lightly to the ground with the resilience of youth. The light was beginning to fade, but the scuffs of the poachers’ feet could still be seen amongst the multitude of tracks and the blood of the dead deer was splattered in dark patches onto the moss beside the path.

  “Where was Hubert?” Bascot asked, and Tostig led them a few feet off the trail, pointing to the branches of a large oak tree.