Death of a Squire (21 page)

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
, E
RNULF
, R
OGET AND
B
ASCOT WERE
sitting in Ernulf’s quarters in the barracks, sharing a jug of wine and the warmth of a glowing brazier. At intervals, as they replenished their cups, Ernulf took a short poker from where it rested amidst the red-hot embers of the brazier and plunged its tip into the wine. The sizzling sound and smell enhanced the taste.

Outside it was cold, with an icy rain falling that was mixed with snow. In a corner Gianni sat, alongside another, smaller, brazier, wrapped in an old blanket and with Ernulf’s cap pulled firmly down around his ears. He was dozing lightly.

Bascot regarded him with affection and felt a renewal of the relief he had felt when he had hauled the boy up onto his horse in the middle of the river. He was now reluctant to let the lad out of his sight, even if it was only to a pallet outside Ernulf’s chamber in the larger common room of the barracks.

“So,
mon ami
,” Roget said, the brass rings that were threaded through his beard throwing off sparks of light as the movement of his lips set them dancing, “are you going to tell us what you have discovered?”

“It was what Gianni discovered, really, Roget,” Bascot replied. “If he had come to me about what he had overheard in the hall instead of trying to play the hero himself, we would have been spared our trudge through the forest to rescue him.”

“True,” the former mercenary replied, “but then we would not have captured all those brigands, my friend. That alone made the effort worthwhile. Although,” he added, with a glance towards the sleeping figure of Gianni, “I would as lief the boy had not been put into such danger.”

“Nor I,” Ernulf agreed, refilling his cup, then raising it to the captain. “This is a good vintage, Roget,” he said. “I thank you for it.”

“Ha! Enjoy it well. That is the last jug from my store. I do not know how soon I can get more.” The captain made a mock expression of such ruefulness that Bascot burst out laughing.

“He was tumbling a wine merchant’s daughter,” Ernulf explained to the Templar. “The father gave him a dozen jugs of this”—he raised the cup high—”for a promise to leave the girl alone.”

“I was tiring of her in any case,” Roget commented, shaking his head. “I never like to spend too long with one woman. They get ideas that are dangerous.”

Ernulf leaned towards Bascot. “But tell us, what was it Gianni overheard, and what did you find out in the village?”

Both the sergeant and Roget listened silently as Bascot told them his tale. Then Ernulf refilled all their wine cups and said, “So you have discovered who murdered Hubert and the charcoal burner and his sons.”

“Yes,” Bascot agreed. “But I cannot prove it.”

“
Ma foi
, does it matter?” Roget asked. “The sheriff will not care for such a nicety.”

Bascot shook his head, but it was Ernulf who answered Roget’s question. “The sheriff may not, but the king will.”

“The king?” Roget protested. “Why should it worry him? The boy was of no importance, not to King John anyway, and I do not think that our new monarch will care overmuch about the fate of Chard and his family.”

“You are right, Roget,” Bascot replied, “but he
will
care about the rumour of treason. Proof of the motive for Hubert’s murder, and of who committed it, must be given to him.”

“Have you thought of a way to get such proof?” Ernulf asked.

“I think so,” Bascot said. “I have discussed the matter with Lady Nicolaa, who has, by the way, discovered another, and separate, transgression against the king’s justice. We have devised a plan, which, if it succeeds, will bring all these matters to light in front of witnesses and thus resolve them. She has instructed me to explain your part in the ruse we propose to play.”

Roget chuckled deep in his beard and Ernulf grinned. “Just tell us what it is that we are to do, de Marins,” the serjeant said. “We both have much relish to hear of it.”

I
T WAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THAT
M
ELISANDE
Fleming received a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to attend a meeting at the sheriff’s hunting lodge for a discussion of the preparations necessary for a hunt planned for the king during his stay in Lincoln. Melisande was in her gold manufactory when the messenger arrived. The workshop was housed in a building adjacent to her house on Mikelgate, and she always enjoyed being in its confines. The sight of the master goldsmith at work on his small anvil, his tiny hammer and tongs stretching and tapping the gleaming yellow metal, always soothed her, and she often herself performed the task of polishing a finished piece with the fine soft fur of a rabbit’s foot.

It had been decided by the goldsmith’s guild that King John would be presented with three gifts from the workshops of Lincoln. Melisande’s manufactory had been allotted the making of a hanap—a large cup—which was to have a cover and footed base and be encased in a wooden box inlaid with silver decoration. The cup was now finished, and Melisande was holding it in her hands, admiring the workmanship of her staff when the messenger came to the door.

The goldsmith’s widow was annoyed at Nicolaa’s request. She knew that John was now at Southwell, having travelled there from Nottingham, a distance of fourteen miles, the previous day. From Southwell he would come the final twenty-three miles to Lincoln and was expected to arrive the following afternoon. She had intended to spend the day preparing for the monarch’s arrival at the castle. There was much to do; the hanap and box must be enclosed in a bag of soft velvet for its presentation, there was her gown to inspect and the choosing of the jewellery she would wear and, most vexing of all, she still had the rebellion of Joanna to contend with.

Impatiently, she threw the short note from Nicolaa onto the floor. She would have to go, like it or not. Even though she held the office of chief forester and, as such, received her salary directly from the crown, it would be unwise to irritate the castellan by a refusal. Nicolaa was well thought of by King John and any commissions the goldsmiths of Lincoln hoped to receive from him could easily be withdrawn if she chose not to recommend them. Angrily Melisande called for one of her servants to saddle the palfrey she kept in a stable behind the house, and for another to bring her a warm cloak. Before reluctantly leaving the manufactory, she sent an urgent message to Copley instructing him to attend her at the lodge for her meeting with Lady Nicolaa. Still in a fury, she left the warm glow of the manufactory’s small furnace and, with a groom to accompany her, rode towards the western gate of the city.

I
N THE CHAMBER THAT HAD BEEN ALLOTTED TO
B
ALDWIN
high in the top of the keep, Alys and Alinor kept the sick boy company. His excitement at the imminent arrival of the king had brought on another of his spells of breathlessness and the castle physician had recommended he rest until it should be time for him to be presented.

“I must be well enough to see King John, Alys, I must,” he said tremulously as she held out a cup of heated wine for him to sip.

“If you don’t stop fretting, little brother, you most assuredly will not be,” his sister said tartly.

“I have sent Osbert for his lute,” Alys told him. “He plays passably well and a little soft music may soothe you and allow you to rest. Now come, lie back and drink your wine. It has a generous dollop of honey in it.”

Baldwin, his face flushed from his recent exertions of struggling for breath, did as he was told and, when Osbert arrived, was lying comfortably and breathing easier.

The page took a seat in the far corner of the room and strummed his instrument quietly. His young fingers were nimble on the strings and his high clear voice carried gently to where Baldwin lay as he sang the opening lines of a ballad about two young lovers travelling together on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Soon Baldwin was asleep and Alinor motioned to Alys that she would leave her brother in her friend’s care, and quietly left the room.

Outside she tripped lightly down the circular stone steps to the hall, looking for Alain and Renault. They were receiving instructions from the Haye steward, Eudo, along with Hugo and a few other squires and pages, on the correct etiquette to be observed when it came their turn to serve at King John’s table. Alinor waited with little patience until Eudo finished his lecture, and then called urgently to the pair to join her in a corner of the hall. Hugo came trailing a few steps behind.

“I think something is afoot to do with Hubert’s murder,” she said to them conspiratorially. “I heard my aunt say that she would be going to my uncle’s hunting lodge later today and that she intended to take Ernulf and some men-at-arms with her.”

The two squires looked at her in bafflement. “Why should you believe that any such excursion would be concerned with who killed Hubert?” Renault asked.

“It is only a feeling I have,” Alinor admitted, “perhaps because earlier the Templar went to speak to my aunt privately. He was in her chamber for a long time and when he came out she sent a servant to fetch my father and Uncle William.”

“I still don’t see why you think these conversations, or Lady Nicolaa going into the forest with a guard, should have anything to do with who killed Hubert,” Renault objected.

“It was something my father said when he came from seeing my aunt,” Alinor confessed.

“And what was that?” Alain asked.

“That he hoped I had learned the folly of meddling in affairs of which I knew nothing,” Alinor replied, a frown creasing her brows. “He said the next time I was tempted to eavesdrop on a conversation, I would be well-advised to stop up my ears with my fingers. He was very angry.”

As she was saying this, Osbert appeared, carrying his lute. “Your brother is sleeping soundly, Alinor,” he said. “Alys will stay with him until he wakes.”

Alinor nodded absently and Osbert asked what was troubling her. When Alain, in a scoffing manner, told him what she had said, Osbert shook his head.

“She may not be wrong,” the page remarked gravely. “I, too, saw the Templar go into Lady Nicolaa’s chamber. He looked even more determined than usual. Perhaps he has found some new trace of who killed Hubert.”

Hugo had been listening to the conversation with growing agitation. “Oh, Alain,” he burst out, “it wasn’t you who murdered him, was it?”

Alain looked at his cousin in surprise, then reached out a hand and ruffled the boy’s close-cropped hair. “Of course not, you donkey. I told you, I did not find Hubert that night. And even if I had, I had no intention of killing him. I was only going to give him a good thrashing.”

Alinor looked round at them all. “This murder has set us all one against another with suspicion and distrust. It seems as though Hubert, even after death, still possesses the ability to cause us as much distress as he did when alive. How amused he would be if he could see us now.”

I
N THE VILLAGE AT THE EDGE OF THE SHERIFF’S CHASE
, the inhabitants were all gathered in the church. Alwin, the reeve, and his son, Leofric, stood at the head of them, listening intently as Father Samson finished serving Mass and turned to speak to them. The feeling of grief was strong. Edward had been foolish, but he was one of their own. At the back of the tiny church, the women stood sniffling with tears, all except Bettina. Her face was unnaturally white and her hands were clenched in front of her. She mourned her cousin’s death, but was frightened of what was to come.

“You must all do exactly as Sir Bascot has instructed,” Samson was saying. “If you do, he has promised to speak to the sheriff on your behalf. If you do not, neither he nor I can help you.” The old priest’s face was sad. He had failed his parishioners. If they had only trusted him enough to come and tell him what was happening, Edward and the murdered squire might still be alive. He raised his hand in a benediction. “Those of you who are involved in the Templar’s plan must go now. The rest of us will stay here and pray for you.”

Bettina, Edwin and Leofric left the hall and, as they did so, a collective sigh rose from the rest of the villagers, bolstered by a great sob from Edwin’s wife. Then they all bent their heads in prayer as Father Samson began to intone a
Pater Noster.

M
ELISANDE ARRIVED AT THE HUNTING LODGE JUST
past the midday hour. Copley met her on the track that approached the building with three of the bowmen that worked under him, and was standing respectfully beside his horse as his mistress approached.

Copley looked nervous. He had fortified himself with a small measure of wine when he had received Melisande’s message, but had dared take no more for fear of a reprimand from his cousin. “Good morrow, mistress,” he greeted Melisande obsequiously. “I believe Lady Nicolaa is already within the lodge. There are horses outside.”

Melisande dismounted impatiently. “I have eyes to see, Copley,” she said brusquely. “Let us go in and find out what it is that Lady Nicolaa wants of me. If King John is to have a hunt on Camville land, I cannot see how I am involved, but if my assistance is needed I would prefer to deal with it quickly. I have much to do before the king arrives.”

Inside the lodge, Nicolaa sat on the chair used by her husband when he stayed at the lodge. It was of oak, with broad comfortable arms and a padded seat. Beside her, her son, Richard, who had been standing at the entrance to the lodge, was now sprawled on a bench and, at her back, stood Ernulf and two of his men-at-arms. In a corner of the large chamber, Tostig, Eadric and a couple of the Camville huntsmen waited and watched as a pair of servants from the castle set wine and cups on a table. In the hearth a fire blazed. As Nicolaa waited for the goldsmith’s widow she ran an examining eye over the preparations made for the king in case he should decide to indulge in a foray after deer or boar during his stay in Lincoln.

The lodge was a capacious structure, built of timber, with a cavernous fireplace on one side and an ample scattering of rugs made from wolf hides on the floor. In one corner was a space concealed by a curtain that was fitted with a comfortable mattress and blankets. Although this was for Gerard’s convenience, it had been freshly made with washed linen and a newly covered bolster, in expectant readiness for the king.

Other preparations had also been made. Bottles of wine lay in caskets filled with straw alongside an assortment of cheeses, including the soft white one that John preferred. There were piles of linen napkins and small sealed earthenware jars of fruit preserves and pots of honey. Nicolaa was well aware of her monarch’s penchant for sweetmeats.

On the walls hung coils of rope, snaring nets and leather cases filled with arrows. Wooden chests filled with leather harnesses, fletching knives and candles were set against the walls and near the bed-space straw sleeping pallets for the king’s servants were neatly piled.

The noise of arriving horses distracted Nicolaa from her mental inventory and she looked towards the door as the goldsmith’s widow entered.

“Greetings, Mistress Fleming,” she said in an even tone. “It is a cold day outside. Shed your cloak and have a cup of wine to warm you.”

Melisande nodded her acceptance and came forward to sit on a settle placed near the fire, handing her cloak to the servant who proffered her the wine, looking about her as she did so.

“You come well escorted today, lady, for just a parlay about planning the king’s hunt,” she said to Nicolaa.

“My son thought it wise, with so many recent trespasses by outlaws into our chase, to have me protected by my serjeant and his men as well as his own sword.”

Melisande looked at Richard. He was regarding her with what seemed like amusement, the red Haye hair glinting in the light from the fire as he lifted his wine cup to his lips and drank. “Did you have no fear for your own safety, Mistress Fleming, to come with only a groom into the forest?” he asked languidly.

Melisande flicked a glance at her agister. Copley was nervous, licking his lips and staring longingly at the wine cups laid out on the table. “I knew my agister would meet me along the way,” Melisande replied. “And I was in a hurry.”

She felt as though the sheriff’s son was baiting her and decided to try to take control of the conversation. “Although I do not understand the reason for this meeting, lady,” she said, addressing Nicolaa. “If a hunt is planned for the king in your husband’s chase, there is not likely to be much infringement into the part of the woodland that my deputy patrols.”

Nicolaa rose from her chair and walked slowly to where Melisande sat. Her short, plump figure seemed dowdily dressed beside the rich finery of the other woman, but her stance, and the calmness of her face beneath the plain white coif, would have given any observer not familiar with her status no doubt that she had authority, and knew how to use it.

“It has come to my notice that there is more infringement, as you call it, in the forest than is at first apparent,” she said.

Melisande’s head came up. She regarded the castellan with an intense stare. “What do you mean, lady?” she asked.

“I mean, Mistress Fleming, that serious crimes have been discovered. Crimes committed against the very warrant that you are sworn to uphold.”

Melisande stood, placing her wine cup on the settle as she did so. “Are you accusing me of dereliction in carrying out the duties of my office, Lady Nicolaa? If so, I would know the charges, and then will answer for them to the chief justice at the forest eyre court, not to you.”

“Sit down, mistress,” Nicolaa commanded abruptly. “You will listen to me, and listen well. If you do not, you will be taken back to Lincoln and held confined until the king arrives. On the authority of my husband, the sheriff.” To reinforce her threat, Nicolaa withdrew from the pouch at her belt a small rolled parchment, from which a seal dangled. On it, the imprint of the Camville emblem of two lions passant could clearly be seen.

Shocked by the sight of the warrant, Melisande did as she was bid, reseating herself unsteadily on the settle. Nicolaa turned away and walked back to her chair. There she turned, and said, “My bailiff has conferred with the regarder for the royal chase over which you hold your post as chief forester. Also, an inspection has been made of the statement of revenues for the area. It would appear that these incomes have not been truthfully reported.”

“I have no knowledge of such—” Melisande began.

“Be quiet, mistress, and do as my mother has bid you. Listen.” Richard’s words cut effectively through what she had been about to say and, with an effort, Melisande swallowed her protest.

“As I said, Mistress Fleming,” Nicolaa continued, “the statement of revenues—which you submitted—is not a true one. For example, they do not include the income from the deforestation of two fine stands of oak, the timber from which was sold, purportedly on behalf of the king. It also seems the fees collected for pasture and pannage have been grossly understated, as have those the peasants pay for the right of estover so they can gather wood.” Nicolaa sat down in her chair and motioned for a servant to refill her wine cup before she continued. “How do you explain these irregularities, mistress?”

Melisande’s face was ashen. Her hands, of which she was so vain, were clenched together with such intensity that the knuckles were like raw red spots against the whiteness of the tendons. She made no response.

“You cannot, can you?” Nicolaa said quietly. “Yet you are pledged to preserve the rights of the king in the venison and vert of his forest, not abuse them.”

Nicolaa made a signal to Ernulf and the men-at-arms came to stand beside Copley and the other woodsmen in Melisande’s employ, all of whom had begun to shuffle uncomfortably towards the door.

“Well, mistress?” Nicolaa prompted. “Have you no answer to these charges?”

Melisande sat silent, only the shaking of her head in a small tight gesture indicated that she had heard.

“There is another matter, as well, Mistress Fleming,” Richard Camville said. Slowly Melisande looked up, eyes glazed with fear.

“What is that, my lord?” she asked in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.

“The death of my uncle’s squire, Hubert de Tournay.”

“No!” The denial shot from Melisande’s mouth with vehemence. “Of that I know nothing, I swear. Why would I have had any hand in his death? I did not even know of his existence until the townspeople began talking of his murder.”

Richard’s response was quick and harsh. “It is believed he was killed by outlaws, poachers in my father’s chase. And you, mistress, have consort with outlaws, do you not?”

Melisande’s face, through her fear, began to blaze with anger. “I know nothing of these matters. Nor do I have brigands in my household.”

“Not in your household, perhaps,” Nicolaa said, “but most certainly on the roll of those you pay to assist you in committing your crimes against the crown.”

“It is a lie,” Melisande burst out. “I tell you, I know nothing of this.”

Richard spoke quietly into the widow’s outburst. “It seems strange that you do not, when your agister most certainly does.”

He looked expectantly at Copley, who was visibly trembling. “You have an arrangement with the outlaws in Sherwood, don’t you, Copley? For a few of the king’s deer you trade with brigands for loot they gain from preying on honest travellers through the forest. And Hubert de Tournay found out about your arrangements, didn’t he? He was an unlikeable little turd, but he had a gift for ferreting out secrets. And he found out yours and threatened to report you unless you gave him what he wanted. What did he ask for—one of the village girls for his bed, perhaps, or maybe a piece of jewellery from your mistress’s wares?”

Copley was shaking his head violently from side to side in negation as Richard relentlessly continued, “But you couldn’t take the chance that the squire would betray you, so you killed him. You are often in the forest; it would be an easy matter for you to lure Hubert there by the promise of payment for his demands and then, with the help of a couple of your outlaw cohorts, take him by surprise and string him up from the oak. But you didn’t expect there would be such a hue and cry after the murderer, did you? Or that the Templar would be set on your trail. When Sir Bascot started to come too close to the truth of the matter you decided a scapegoat was needed, so you provided us with one—Fulcher.”

Richard leaned forward now, his resemblance to his father apparent as anger hardened his jaw. “You are the confidant of brigands, Copley. We have witnesses to that fact. It was a simple matter to get one of his own kind to betray Fulcher, and that is how you came to be so fortuitously on hand to capture him. And why you brought him so joyfully to my father—so that we would be led away from discovering the identity of the real murderer of Hubert de Tournay—and that murderer is you, Copley.”

The agister’s face was ashen by the time Richard Camville had finished speaking. Falling to his knees before the sheriff’s son, he sobbed as he proclaimed his innocence. “No, no, my lord, I swear by all that is holy that I had nothing to do with the death of the squire,” he said earnestly. “As God is my witness, Sir Richard, I am innocent of murder.”

Nicolaa rose from her chair, her gaze flicking with disgust over the man cowering at her son’s feet and the stricken expression on the face of Melisande. She called to Ernulf. “Take Mistress Fleming and her deputy to Lincoln. And their bowmen as well. Tostig will aid in the escort with our own woodsmen.”

O
N A SMALL SLOPE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL ON
which Lincoln castle stood, Bascot met with the three villagers. “You are clear in what you are to do?” he asked. “Remember that your own reprieve from punishment depends on carrying this task out well.”

“Yes, my lord, we know. We will do it,” Bettina replied and looked to her uncle and cousin. They nodded in turn.

“Then follow me into the bail and we will wait there,” Bascot said.

W
HEN
N
ICOLAA AND
R
ICHARD ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE
gate with their prisoners firmly under guard, the bailey was crowded. The news of the arrest of the chief forester and her deputy had flown ahead like wildfire and not only were Gerard Camville and his brother on hand to meet them with their retinues, but most of the castle staff as well, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, surveyed the scene from the steps that led up to the new keep. A little distance into the crowd was Joanna Fleming, brought to the castle ward just moments before by Roget, who, following Nicolaa de la Haye’s direction, had not only escorted her from her home, but was keeping her under close surveillance. She watched the little cavalcade enter the bail with anxious eyes, glancing up at the mercenary captain from time to time with fear on her face. Bascot, clad in mail and his Templar surcoat, waited a small distance from the gate, ensuring that he could keep Gianni, safe in the shelter of the door to the barracks, within his view.

The sky was beginning to darken as evening approached and, although the sleety rain had ceased to fall, it was still very cold, with the occasional tiny flake of snow drifting down on the waiting throng. But no one seemed to heed the discomfort of the weather, for the gaze of all gathered there was concentrated on catching sight of Melisande and her agister being brought into custody.

As Richard led his mother in through the gate, Bettina, standing just inside its arch with her relatives beside her, stepped forward and sketched a brief curtsey.

“Lady Nicolaa,” she said in a voice that was hesitant, “may I have speech with you?”

Nicolaa looked down on the milkmaid, and checked her horse. “Can it not wait, girl? As you can see, I have much to attend to.”

“It is important, my lady, and cannot be delayed.”

Nicolaa gave her a brief nod. “Get on with it then,” she said.

Bettina raised up her courage and spoke clearly. “It is said you have taken Mistress Fleming and her agister in charge for murdering Sir William’s squire, but it is not so, my lady. They did not do it.”