Death of a Squire (17 page)

I
N THE PRIVACY OF HER CHAMBER
N
ICOLAA DE LA
H
AYE
was engaged in a diversion that was rare for her. She was pacing. Her thoughts far outstripped her feet as she slowly walked from one side of the room to the other, then back again. Not only was her mind on the rescue of the Templar’s servant, but also on her conversation with her son, Richard, the previous evening, as well as the murder of William’s squire and the impending visit of King John.

Perhaps the private speech with Richard was the most disturbing. Although he had assured her that John was in an ebullient mood rooted in joy of his new young bride, Isabelle of Angouleme, her son had warned her that the king was as suspicious as ever of those about him. Constantly he probed for information about his vassals, asking questions that barely veiled his mistrust of their pledge of fealty, and often lapsed into a broody silence that made those about him uneasy.

“Of this meeting with the Scottish monarch he can have no cause for alarm,” Nicolaa had said to her son. “William is completely cowed. He will keep his pledge to pay homage to John.”

“I do not think it is Scotland about which the king frets, Mother, but about his nephew, Arthur. Dead Geoffrey’s son was long a competitor for the crown of England and John still sees the boy as a threat. Anyone foolish enough to voice even a whisper that Arthur should have the crown in John’s stead will soon lose his head, and it would not be parted from his body in a quick manner, either.”

Nicolaa’s steps increased their speed as she continued to walk back and forth. There would be little means to keep the death of Hubert from the king’s knowledge. It had been done in too spectacular a fashion for the news not to be known to all the inhabitants of Lincoln. And with the tale of his death would come the rumour of the boy’s intimacy with a conspiracy that favoured Arthur to take John’s place. Nicolaa had much affection for John, but she knew how suspicious he was. Not even his esteem for her could prevent his viewing not only her husband, but also her brother-by-marriage, de Humez, and perhaps even Gerard’s brother, William, with distrust. And where John distrusted, he destroyed.

Again and again she went over the squire’s murder. The method of the deed was not one she would have attributed to Gerard; a simple sword thrust would have been more in keeping with her husband, and the body left carelessly where it fell. Neither would any of his hired ruffians, like Roget, have acted in a dissimilar way. But she knew how much Gerard hated John. Had he become involved in a plot against the king and Hubert become privy to it? Had her husband ordered the boy despatched to dam up his overflowing mouth?

And her brother-by-marriage, de Humez—was his assurance of innocence in the matter of the boy’s death a truthful one? And his attempt to convince her that he was not involved in any treasonous scheme to supplant John—could she believe him? It was difficult to be completely sure. Even William could be considered suspect; perhaps the boy had overheard something in his lord’s household and had paid the ultimate price for his snooping. And were the murders of Chard and his sons tied to the squire’s death? And if so, how? Had they been privy to the identity of the person who had slain Hubert? Was that the reason that they, in turn, had been killed?

She pondered on the two squires, Alain and Renault. She could see neither of them as murderers. Alain might have given Hubert a terrible beating if he had found him that night, but if either had been intent on killing him, it was more likely to have been done during practice at swordplay, or with a lance. Easy enough to pretend a misjudged stroke had caused his death by accident and both squires were skilled enough at arms to do so. Hubert would have been an easy target if they had been so inclined.

Another thought struck her, just as unpleasant as the last. Could the two squires have left the hall that night with the express purpose of killing Hubert, and were only using the story of his offensive behaviour with Alys as a cover for their real reason for wanting the squire’s death? Was it William, instead of her husband and de Humez, who was involved in a plot against the king and the boys knew it? If that was so, then the two squires, mimicking the barons who had murdered the exasperating Thomas a Becket for King Henry, could have reasoned that they were doing their lord a favour by ridding him of the troublesome squire. Henry had professed that he had not been guilty of ordering his barons to kill the archbishop, but few had believed him. Was it possible William was now caught in a similar snare?

Reluctant to accept such a possibility she pushed her mind away from thoughts of treason and once more ruminated on the manner of the squire’s death. Perhaps the hanging had not been intended as a warning. Could it be possible that, instead, it spoke of a need for revenge? If the desecration by the birds had been intended, then it had certainly slaked a need to humiliate the boy in death that the murderer might not have been able to achieve while Hubert lived. Or had it only been made to seem so, and the apparent vengeance was in itself misleading?

She sighed in frustration and paused in her reflections, pouring herself a cup of cider spiced with cinnamon, a beverage she preferred to wine. As she sipped it, she thought that her time would be better spent in sending up a prayer for the safe deliverance of de Marins’s mute servant than in expending her energies in useless speculation. Resolutely she pushed the matter from her mind and set herself instead to work on composing a letter of welcome to be sent to the Scottish king the following morning.

J
OANNA
, M
ELISANDE’S DAUGHTER, WAS IN HER MOTHER’S
fine stone house in Lincoln. Melisande was not at home, having left early that morning to attend a meeting of the goldsmith’s guild to discuss plans for presenting a gift to King John on his arrival in the town. The servants, too, were all gone on various tasks for their mistress around the city, except for the young girl who tended the brood of hens caged in the yard at the back of the house.

Joanna peered out of one of the two casements that brought in light to a chamber on the upper storey of the widow’s home. The room served as her mother’s solar and, like the rest of the rooms, was liberally strewn with the expensive tapestries, cushions and furs that Melisande loved. But Joanna had no thought for the comfort that surrounded her. She strode nervously from one window to another, then to a brazier that stood in one corner of the room, heaped with glowing coals, where she warmed her hands with a wringing motion that had more of nervousness in its movement than a wish to bring heat to her cold flesh.

Anxiously she listened for the church bells to ring the hour of None, knowing, as most of Lincoln town did by now, that this was the time when the Templar would be at the riverbank to try to obtain his servant’s release. Once she heard the bells, Joanna would go to the castle, for when news came as to whether the exchange of prisoners had been successful, it would first come there. She needed to know that her lover was safe and, despite her mother’s warning, did not intend to give him up. Only death could force her to do that.

G
REEN
J
ACK WAS PERCHED IN THE TOP OF A TREE SOME
little way from the spot on the riverbank where his men were holding the Templar’s servant. He had a good vantage point and, despite the bareness of the leafless branches, would not easily be spotted in his clothes of russet brown twined with the half-dead vines. His vision was exceptionally keen, especially for long distances, and he scanned the area surrounding him, looking for the sheriff’s men. He knew they would be there, to the north and south of the old oak, but, hopefully, not on both sides of the river. Although he had instructed the Templar to come alone, he had not expected that command to be obeyed, especially when he had no doubt that Gerard Camville would be involved in the rescue. The sheriff would dearly love to capture even a few of Jack’s men and there was no doubt as to the fate of any who should be so luckless as to end up in Camville’s merciless hands.

Although Green Jack knew the dangers of using the boy as bait, he had been unable to resist the temptation of luring the Templar into the forest. But he had been careful not to stretch the risk to his own person too far. He was some little distance from the crossing he had specified and had sent the men most expendable from his band to be in the forefront of the danger. Berdo, Talli and Edward, the reeve’s nephew, were with the boy; the first two Fulcher’s men and of no importance, and the last too stupid to be of any further use even if he should not be captured. Jack had given instructions to the archers he had sent with them to withdraw into the forest if it looked as though the plan to capture the Templar was going awry.

The Templar. The thought of having one of the men who wore that hated red cross in his, Jack’s, power brought a surge of emotion to his loins that was almost lascivious. How many times had he dreamed that he would one day humiliate one of them, and in just such a manner as they had done to him so many years ago when he had been no more than a lad, a stupid young boy who had idolized their holiness, their strength, their dedication. Whenever one or more of the supposedly virtuous knights had chanced to appear on the streets of Nottingham where he had lived as a child, he had rushed to watch them ride by on their gleaming horses, imagining the valiant deeds they would perform in the Holy Land, and the infidels they would kill in defence of the pilgrims they protected.

Now his thin lips curled in wry amusement of how feeble-witted he had been to believe the stories that circled the Templars like halos of glory. Holy monks who fought for Christ it was said, but they were no better than mercenary soldiers, lower even, for what they did was not for monetary profit, but for love of their own vanity, and to promulgate their sordid vices. He could still remember the day he had managed to scuttle through the gates into the yard of the Templar preceptory in Nottingham, how he had hidden behind some bales of hay and watched a few of the knights at sword practice. They had seemed like giants to him rather than mere men, wielding flashing blades of light as the swords arced up and down, thrusting, cutting, parrying. So intent on the dazzling display had he been that he had not heard the brown-robed serjeant approach him from behind, nor been aware of his discovery until a hand clad in a gauntlet of leather had clamped down on his shoulder. Then he had been swung from his hiding place and tossed out onto the edge of the practice field as lightly and easily as if he had been a flea thrown from a dog.

“It seems we have an intruder in our midst,” the serjeant had called, and the knights had ceased their swordplay to come and look at Jack, who had crunched himself into a fearful ball at the serjeant’s feet. From his vantage point, too frightened to look up, all he could see were the dusty boots of the men around him, and the hems of their surcoats.

“Is he armed?” one of the knights had asked jocularly. “You had best search him, Eubold. He might be a Saracen in disguise, with a scimitar concealed beneath those rags he is wearing.”

“No, no,” another knight had said. “He is more likely to be one of their eunuchs, come to see how whole men comport themselves.”

Much laughter had followed this, then another knight called, “Perhaps we should see for ourselves. Strip him, Eubold, let us see if he truly has any balls, or if it is as de Limenes says and he has been parted from his manhood.”

Jack had tried to struggle to his feet but the serjeant, Eubold, had dragged him up by the hair of his head and quickly divested him of his tunic and hose, then dangled him by his heels in front of the watching knights.

“It seems, lords, that he still has all the equipment God gave him at birth,” the serjeant had said, laughing along with the rest as he gave Jack a shake that made his head flop and his senses spin in a sickening circle. Even now, he could still hear their laughter and the scorn with which they had jested about his exposed genitals.

“Ah, well,” said the first knight who had spoken. “I did not really suppose he was lacking proof of his manhood, else he would not have been brave enough to sneak in here.”

“What shall I do with him, lords?” the serjeant had asked.

“Throw him on the dung heap,” answered one of the knights lazily. “Or whatever you will, Eubold. Just make sure he is gone from here and knows beyond doubt that he is not to come into the preceptory again.”

The spectacle of his humiliation had now lost the knights’ interest and most of them turned away and resumed their sword practice. The serjeant had tossed Jack into the air, catching him by the shoulders as he fell. Then the soldier carried him to the back of the preceptory and flung him, and his clothes after him, into a pile of pig dung that was heaped outside a pen containing about a dozen of the animals. He had watched in amusement as Jack had tried to scramble to his feet and rescue his clothes, the foul-smelling muck sticking to him more and more with every movement. When he had finally pushed himself clear of the heap of excrement, the serjeant had put his boot to Jack’s bare arse and kicked him all the way to the door of the compound. There the guards that manned the gate had laughed as he had run out into the street, where passersby had first looked in amazement at the naked lad, then backed off as the smell of the ordure reached them. From a distance they had tittered with amusement as he had struggled into his clothes and run all the way home.

To Jack, that day had been branded in his memory and his adoration for the Templars had turned to hatred. It had also marked the beginning of the time when his life went sour. His father, a seller of mediocre quality parchment, had died the very next week, his only legacy to his youngest son an unfinished teaching of the rudiments of his letters. A few days later his stepbrother, older by some ten years, had decided he did not want to bear the cost of feeding the brat his father had sired in old age, and had thrown Jack out of the family home and told him to fend for himself. Hunger had forced Jack to steal, and then steal again, until a narrow escape from being caught while robbing an angry pie merchant had led him to take refuge in the greenwood. Through all those years, and the ones that followed, he had never forgotten the humiliating incident in the Templar preceptory, or the irrational belief that the Order had somehow been the cause of all his misfortune. How many times had he fervently prayed for heaven to give him an opportunity to take his revenge? Now his prayers had been answered and requital was at hand. And, if providence smiled on him further, not only would he have the Templar in his power, but also that thorn in his side, Fulcher. His mouth stretched into a smile as he contemplated such a coup.