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  Bascot glanced at the clothing and then examined the ring. “It would appear your clerk intended to return for this bag before he left on his journey to Grantham,” he said. “Not only would he have needed the change of clothing, I doubt whether he would have left without taking this.” He held up the ring so the moneyer could see it more clearly. It was fashioned in a design of clasping hands popular for betrothal rings. “A hopeful gift for your clerk’s sweetheart, I would think.”

  De Stow nodded sadly. “You are right, Sir Bascot. Its presence here also indicates that Peter lied to me.”

  “How so?” Bascot asked.

  The moneyer gave a regretful sigh. “When Peter asked to leave early on his last day of work, he told me he needed to do so because he had to pick up his good tunic from a fuller who was cleansing it. The fuller’s premises are on the way to the river where the boat Peter was to take lay at anchor. It would not make sense for him to go and collect his tunic and then come all the way back here just to get his extra hose and the ring. He would have taken the bag with him and collected his tunic on the way to the quay.”

  “Then he must have picked up his tunic on a previous day, for it is here and looks newly cleansed.” At de Stow’s disappointed nod of confirmation, Bascot added, “And the reason he asked to leave early must have been so he could go to the quarry for some purpose he did not wish to reveal to you.”

  “I suppose it must,” de Stow remarked glumly.

  A short time later, Bascot and Gianni left De Stow’s house and retrieved the Templar’s horse. As they rode past St. Mary Crackpole church towards Mikelgate, Bascot looked up at the sky. The pale blue above them was unmarred except for a few grey clouds and even though there was a bank of darkness in the east, he thought it unlikely that any rain or snow would fall during the next few hours. He turned his mount down Mikelgate towards Stonebow, the principal gate out of the lower part of the town and, once they had passed through it, went along Briggate towards the bridge that crossed the Witham River. The village of Canwick, where Walter Legerton had his manor house, was only about two miles’ distance from the river.

  While de Stow had seemed genuinely disturbed by the death of Peter Brand, and anxious for the sorrow it would cause his mother, Bascot had learned from his dealing with those involved in previous cases of secret murder that a perpetrator was often skilled at concealing his true thoughts behind a mask of innocence. If de Stow had been honest when he claimed he had only learned of Brand’s death through his chance meeting with Cerlo the day before, then Legerton, who had been absent from Lincoln for the last two days, might not yet have heard of the clerk’s murder. If that was the case, it might be profitable to witness the exchanger’s reaction when he heard news of the stabbing. If he was not involved in the clerk’s murder, or in the concealment of a treasure trove, his surprise would be genuine. But if he had some knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Brand’s death, he might not have sufficient cunning to conceal it.

  After the templar and his servant had gone, Helias de Stow went back to his chamber, reseated himself at his desk and stared blankly at the piece of parchment lying on its surface. Although he picked up his quill and dipped it in the inkpot, he still could not bring himself to write the words that would tell Peter’s mother her son was dead.

  De Stow sighed heavily, laid his pen down and rested his head in his hands, his fingers digging into the top of his bald pate as he did so. Peter’s death and the subsequent visit of the Templar had unnerved him. The moneyer had always taken pride in presenting a confident image to his family and employees but now he felt as though that facade was cracking. It had been a mistake to move to Lincoln, but it was an error he could not have foreseen. When Legerton had offered to recommend him for the post of king’s moneyer in Lincoln, it had seemed an attractive proposition. There were two royal mints in Grantham and the one in which de Stow worked had been the smaller of the two and of less consequence. The stipend for the Lincoln post was much higher than he had been earning in Grantham, as was the commission he, and Legerton, received on the amount of coinage that passed through their hands.

  The problems that plagued him had begun to arise during the move from one town to the other. He and Blanche had sent their furniture to Lincoln by river barge and, during the journey, the barge had capsized. All their belongings, except for some clothing and personal possessions they had taken with them on their journey by road, had been lost and required a considerable sum to replace. Then Helias had arrived at the Lincoln mint and found some minor equipment was in need of replacement-the bellows for the forge were starting to rot and two of the hammermen’s tables were full of woodworm. He had also been dismayed to discover that a few stones in the outer wall were loose and in need of repair. Although the latter was not extremely urgent, it could not be delayed too long lest the security of the mint be compromised. Legerton had assured the moneyer he would be reimbursed by the crown for these necessities, but the promised payment had not arrived. When the cost of bringing the mint up to a reasonable standard was added to the sum needed to replace most of the household furniture, de Stow’s savings had not been enough to cover the total outlay. He had been forced to take desperate measures to try to extricate himself from his predicament and was worried they would prove disastrous. And now there was Peter’s untimely death to exacerbate the whole sorry situation.

  De Stow took a sip of wine and tried to compose his thoughts. He must continue with the arrangements he had made and trust all would eventually be resolved in a satisfactory manner. Resolutely he picked up the quill and returned his attention to the composition of his letter to Peter’s mother, choosing his words carefully. He must try, as much as possible, to minimise the gor- ier details of her son’s death.

  Eight

  In front of a blazing fire in the solar, Nicolaa de la Haye sat with her female guests, all of whom, once Richard was wed to Eustachia, would be related to her by marriage. She was having difficulty in giving her full attention to the conversation of the other women, for her mind kept drifting to the conversation she had had with her husband the previous evening. Gerard’s concern that an unreported trove could be involved in the murder of the clerk was, in her opinion, well-founded.

  Tales of corruption among those who manufactured and distributed coins of the realm were not uncommon and, because it was now the season of Christ’s Mass, Nicolaa recalled the story she had been told of an event that had taken place seventy-five years before at this very same time of year. The first King Henry had been on the throne then and, having discovered that a number of his moneyers were guilty of abasing the silver pennies issued in his name, had summoned them to Winchester and confronted them with their crimes. One by one, and despite the fact that he and his court were celebrating the holy days of Christ’s birth, the king had sentenced them all to be emasculated and their right hands cut off.

  Nicolaa shivered, her diminutive, slightly plump frame overcome with a tremor of fear. If John believed that Gerard was part of any scheme that involved embezzling monies rightfully due to the crown, not even her friendship with the king, and the trust he had always placed in her, would deter him from subjecting her husband to the same harsh punishment.

  Her attention was caught by a remark directed to her by Egelina Bassett, Eustachia’s mother, who was voicing her concern that the weather would not hold fine for the day of her daughter’s betrothal. Egelina and Nicolaa had been friends for many years through the acquaintanceship of their husbands, and although Egelina was not an overly intelligent woman, Nicolaa was very fond of her and admired the loving firmness with which she had raised both of her girls.

  Eustachia was of a more serious mien than her younger sister, but had inherited her father’s acumen and would, Nicolaa thought, make a suitable wife for Richard. Her son had spent the years of his training for knighthood in Gilbert Bassett’s household and had always spoken of his admiration for the baron’s elder daughter, claiming she combined good sense with
womanly grace. Although her son did not realise it, Nicolaa was sure Richard’s favourable impression of Eustachia was mainly due to the fact that the girl had the wit to discern that most men preferred a woman who listened rather than chattered. Eustachia was also sensible in the matter of her appearance; her colouring was dark, almost Italianate, and today she was wearing a gown of muted blue set with trimmings of dark green that contrasted subtly with her skin and gave it a rosy glow. While her features were not completely handsome-her eyes were set a little too close together and her teeth were crooked-her expression was pleasing, and she possessed an even temper. There was no doubt in Nicolaa’s mind that Eustachia was very fond of Richard; the castellan had seen the tender expression that came over the girl’s face whenever she looked his way. All in all, the castellan thought, the match was pleasing to both young people. Since marriages among the nobility were usually arranged for the purpose of forging a favourable alliance, it was not often the two people concerned embarked on a marriage based on love, or even mutual regard. That Richard and Eustachia would be an exception to this generality was a rarity for which Nicolaa was thankful.

  The castellan’s gaze went to Lucia, the younger of Egelina and Gilbert’s two daughters. The sisters were a contrast in opposites. Lucia had a pretty face that was always animated, hair of rich auburn and an entrancing smile that showed off her small even teeth to advantage. Even though she was only sixteen years of age, her figure was already lush, with a swelling bosom and lissom hips. At the moment, Lucia was speaking volubly to her cousin Maud of Turville about Maud’s son, Stephen, telling the boy’s mother that Stephen had been most interested in the gestures the Templar’s mute servant had been using to convey his thoughts to the clerk that sat beside him at the banquet last night. She was also expressing her opinion that she thought Stephen should be taught some of them.

  “I think he would benefit greatly from the knowledge, Maud,” Lucia said earnestly. “I know that because of Stephen’s disfigurement Ralph decided to keep him at home rather than send him to another lord for training in knighthood, but that decision has made him withdrawn in the company of others. If Stephen could use gestures to convey his wishes to your servants, and to converse with you and his father, I am sure it would swell his confidence.”

  Maud’s response to the suggestion was one of agitation. Although she doted on her son, she was a timid and indecisive woman whose self-confidence had been sorely strained by the fact that the only heir she had given her husband had been marked in such a terrible manner.

  “I will have to ask Ralph about your suggestion, Lucia,” Maud said, her hands fluttering ineffectually over the embroidery in her lap. “Our physician at home said I must have startled a hare while Stephen was in my womb and the malicious creature took its revenge by causing my son’s disfigurement. The doctor has made up an ointment he is sure will heal the cleft and I have been applying it every morning without fail for the last ten days.”

  She looked around at the other women, her eyes full of hope. “The physician said it would take some weeks before any difference would be noticed, but I am sure the fissure in his lip is already beginning to close. If it does, then he will not need to learn any other means of communication, for he will be able to speak clearly.”

  Her companions smiled at her in an attempt at reassurance but Nicolaa saw the doubt in Egelina’s face, and felt the same herself. She had heard there were occasions when a split in a newborn child’s lip could be corrected by sewing the cleft together with catgut and leaving the stitches in place until the flesh had grown together, but this was only effective if the gap was very slight and the repair done immediately after birth. Nicolaa had seen Stephen when he was just a few months old and the malformation had been a deep one; it started at the base of his nose and exposed nearly all his front teeth. And even if this rift should be improved by the physician’s ointment, the cleft in his palate would still remain. It was very doubtful he would be able to speak without distortion unless both of these deformities were corrected.

  “And even if the ointment doesn’t heal his lip,” Maud said to Lucia with an unusual flash of temerity, “there would be little point in Stephen learning the gestures, for once we return home, no one except he would know what they meant.”

  “But many of the movements are simple and easily comprehended, Maud,” Lucia protested, “even by those not familiar with the meaning of them. I have seen the Templar’s servant use them with many people-to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ for example, or to ask that a particular dish be passed to him when he is serving his master. Besides,” she added defiantly, “I am willing to learn them even if you are not. Then, when I am in Stephen’s company, he can convey his thoughts to me and we can have speech together.”

  Lucia gave her cousin a disdainful glance as she added, “I would have thought that you, as his mother, would be anxious to do likewise.”

  Egelina gave her younger daughter a reproving look for her impertinence and changed the direction of the conversation by asking Eustachia if she had made a choice of material for her wedding gown, even though a date had not yet been set for her daughter and Richard’s marriage. It was a question to which her elder daughter responded with alacrity, conscious of her mother’s purpose. The awkward moment passed but it was nonetheless obvious that Lucia’s disapproval, and the reason for it, had impressed Maud. She, in common with most people, even those of the nobility, was not literate and although Stephen had been taught to read and write by a private tutor, she could not communicate with him through the written word because of her inability to read. But if, like Lucia, she learned the gestures the Templar’s mute servant used, she would be able to hold a conversation with the son she loved so dearly. Hesitantly, in a whispered aside, Maud promised her young cousin that she would speak to her husband about the matter.

  As the women fell to suggesting materials that might be suitable for Eustachia’s gown, and offering advice on trimmings, shoes and jewels, Nicolaa returned to her consideration of the motive behind the murder of the clerk. She was glad Gerard had asked Bascot de Marins to investigate the death. The Templar had a forte for uncovering the truth behind men’s actions, and if the murder was connected to embezzlement in the mint, she was sure he would discover it.

  If the worst happened and de Marins found that a treasure trove was also involved in the crime, the king would need to be quickly apprised of the situation. In such an explosive situation, she decided, it would be best if she took upon herself the responsibility for doing so. She had enjoyed a long friendship with the king and, unlike Gerard and many other nobles, had a fondness for John. His suspicious nature was the result of being used as a pawn by the squabbling members of his family throughout the whole of his life; in truth he was intelligent, witty and, when the occasion demanded it, a more than competent military commander. Even though the king and Gerard were not complaisant with each other, she knew that John held her own person in high esteem and would not question her honesty. For her husband’s well-being, it was fortunate this was so.

  The Witham river had flooded its banks when the heavy rains had fallen on Lincoln two days before, and the water was just now beginning to recede as Bascot and Gianni crossed the bridge below Briggate. The ground on both sides of the river was marshy, and it was not until they took a lane that led eastward towards Canwick and the ground began to rise that their mount could step out freely, its hooves finally unhindered by the sucking mud. As they rode, the Templar spoke to Gianni over his shoulder and instructed the boy to keep his wax tablet tucked in his scrip while they were at the manor house.

  “Sir Richard told me that Legerton is very conscious of his rights as an officer of the crown and can sometimes be supercilious because of it,” Bascot said to the boy. “I do not wish to make it seem we have come to interrogate him. I shall merely say I have come to ask if he has any knowledge of the reason Peter Brand was at the quarry on the night he was killed. That does not mean, Gianni, that you ar
e not to keep your ears stretched wide, and your eyes also. If you see anything you think might be of import, store it away in your mind and write it down when we have returned to the castle.”

  Bascot felt Gianni give his shoulder two gentle taps, a signal that meant he understood. Two were for yes, three for no. It was fortuitous that, because of the celebration of the feast day, Gianni had not been required to assist John Blund and Lambert in the scriptorium. The boy had a sharp intelligence that had been invaluable during the previous cases of secret murder the Templar investigated; he hoped it would prove so again.

  Walter Legerton’s manor house was small in size but impressive nonetheless. Encircled by a protective wall of stone, it was set in the middle of a large yard surrounded by outbuildings that comprised stables, storehouses and a blacksmith’s forge. The house itself was a solid rectangle in shape, half-timbered and three storeys high, with the lower floor partially submerged below ground level to serve as a cellar for the storage of provisions or as a place of safety during times of unrest. The topmost floor, which was of wood, was set with wider windows than the second storey, and the eaves on the tiled roof were decorated with carvings at each corner. There were two chimneys of turret design, one at the end of each outside wall. It appeared to be either a recently erected structure or an old one that had been completely refurbished. Whichever it was, Bascot thought, it gave the impression that its owner was a man of some wealth.

  The Templar was hailed by the guard on the gate and asked his name and the purpose of his visit. Once Bascot told him, the guard sent a servant running to the house and, after a few moments, Legerton’s steward appeared. Bowing low, the steward said he would be pleased to take the Templar to his master and, calling for a groom to take charge of Bascot’s horse, led his two visitors across the yard.