Shroud of Dishonour (8 page)

At two hours past midday, the preceptor gave the little band a brief rest after which, he said, the knights would engage in combat with lances. The men-at-arms were to set up butts and improve their archery skills.

There were four brothers of knight’s rank in the contingent and these, with their squires, took up places on a level stretch of ground. D’Arderon and Emilius rode down to watch the contest, leaving Hamo in charge of the men-at-arms. The preceptor and draper watched the knights’ manoeuvres with interest, weighing up the expertise of each. Two of the knights were young men who had only recently received the buffet of knighthood and had little battle experience. The other two were older, both men who were approaching their fortieth year. One of these had told Emilius he had once served with King Richard’s forces in Normandy in the years before the monarch’s death, and had fought alongside William Marshall, a famed paladin despite his advancing age, in the attack on the French castle at Milli, near Beauvais, in ‘97. Having returned to England shortly after that encounter, the knight’s reflexes had slowed somewhat during the intervening years of peaceful inactivity, but the training he had undergone since joining the Templars had encouraged their sharpness to return. After only one pass, he and the other older knight, a crusader who had followed King Richard to the Holy Land in 1192, had unhorsed both of the younger knights and prepared to pit their skills against each other. Twice the pair ran a course across the hillocky grassland, the twelve foot lances crashing onto each other’s shields, but with both managing to deflect the blow and maintain their seats. As they drew apart and wheeled their destriers for the third time, the knight who had fought with William Marshall tried a different tactic. Instead of aiming the blunted twelve-foot shaft at the shield of his opponent, he held it low, as though he was tiring and could not couch the lance firmly under his arm. The former crusader was quick to take advantage of this seeming weakness and spurred his horse forward, his lance levelled for a clear hit on the shield of his adversary. At the last moment, his opponent raised his lance and, with a swift movement, knocked the other shaft aside and then, with the full weight of his body, thrust himself sideways and drove his shield into that of the former crusader, toppling him from the saddle. Shouts of admiration burst forth from the watching men and a groan of despair from the fallen knight’s squire.

“That man will be a valuable addition to the commandery in Portugal,” d’Arderon said to Emilius.

“And I thank God for him,” the draper replied with enthusiasm. “They have great need for men of experience.”

As it was now approaching Vespers, d’Arderon called a halt to the training and ordered the men to return to the enclave, hoping the day’s demanding activity had put new heart into all. For a short time, as they lined up to ride through the gate into the preceptory, there was a brief burst of exhilaration as tactics and weapons were discussed, but it was short-lived. Once inside the commandery, an unnatural silence fell, and it was not broken as the Templars stabled their horses and then crossed the compound to attend the early evening service in the chapel. Despite d’Arderon’s efforts, a pall of despondency still engulfed them all.

I
T WAS LATE IN THE EVENING BY THE TIME
B
ASCOT RETURNED to the commandery. He and Roget had spoken to all of the men Verlain had named and every one had witnesses to their presence on the morning in question. In the case of three of them, it was the customer’s wives who provided their spouses’ alibis—with angry glances at their husbands as they did so—and for the rest of them, who were all unmarried or widowed—it was a member of the household in which they lived who confirmed their whereabouts at the pertinent time. Before they parted, Bascot and Roget agreed that, on the morrow, the captain would visit all of the houses in Butwerk, especially those close to the stewe where Elfreda had worked, and ask if any of the inhabitants had seen the prostitute after she left the bawdy house. In the meantime, Bascot would speak to the men in the preceptory, asking each one if they were certain they had not noticed anything untoward during the time Elfreda and her companion had been admitted to the enclave. Preceptor d’Arderon had already made this same enquiry, but it had been at a general assembly of the men after Elfreda’s body had been removed, and the response had been negative. Perhaps by Bascot speaking to each brother individually, as well as to the grooms that slept out on the hillside where the surplus horses were penned, he might find some small trace of the prostitute’s presence and a description of the man who had accompanied her.

That night, Bascot’s sleep was restless. As the rest of the men in the dormitory snored on their pallets, the Templar gave more consideration to the notion that one of the men in the enclave was guilty of the crime. In the small radiance cast by the rushlights kept burning all night long in the sleeping place, Bascot stared into the wooden rafters above him with his one good eye and pondered if the idea was feasible. In order to have gained Elfreda’s company, it would have been necessary for the man to have left the commandery the evening before, and to have done so unnoticed. If he had been able to accomplish that, he could have regained admittance in the guise of one of the lads Hamo had hired as extra help, killed Elfreda and secreted her body in the chest, then returned to his pallet. Apart from the danger of his earlier absence being noticed, the task would have been much easier for an inmate of the preceptory to commit than an outsider. He would be familiar with the daily routine, cognizant of the layout of the chapel and other buildings and, since he was expected to be present in the enclave, had no need to be concerned about a surreptitious exit.

If his suspicion had merit, it was possible that the guilty person’s absence had not been noticed. Sleeping quarters in the dormitory were cramped due to the excessive number of men in the enclave; priority was given to those of knight’s rank and their squires, requiring that the overflow take their night’s rest wherever they could find enough space to lie down. Some of the men-at-arms had spread their pallets in the stables, others on the floor of the granary or in the confines of the storehouse, squeezing in beside the lay brothers and servants who regularly slept in the buildings. And there was always the possibility that the culprit was a brother who had left the preceptory with the recently departed contingent. When those additional men were in the enclave, sleeping quarters had been even more inadequate. It was unlikely one man’s absence would have been noticed.

Short of asking every brother to vouch for the presence of his sleeping companions, there was no way in which Bascot could verify that all of the Templars, as well as the lay brothers and servants, had remained within the precincts of the commandery for the entire night. Another concern was that if he asked the question too boldly, it might exacerbate the existing feeling of disquietude; he did not want to plant the suspicion in their minds that a Templar might have carried out the murder. If that happened, morale would fall even lower than it was now. Still, he decided, by taking care to be judicious with his questions, it might just be possible to ascertain the presence of everyone without revealing his purpose. He hoped it would prove a fruitless exercise, but felt it to be a necessary one, if only to eliminate the possibility that, God forfend, a Templar brother was the murderer.

I
N THE CASTLE,
G
ERARD CAMVILLE GREW EVEN MORE TESTY than usual as one day passed and another began, and still no trace of Elfreda’s killer was found. Finally, Nicolaa suggested that he take a hunting party out into the greenwood and use his pent-up energy in pursuit of an animal quarry instead of a human one, perhaps even stay overnight in his hunting lodge while he did so. She would, she told him, send a message to him at once if any new information was unearthed. When her irascible husband agreed to her suggestion, there was a sigh of relief not only from his wife, but from every member of the castle household.

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER
P
RIME, D’
A
RDERON HAD all of the men from the contingent assemble in the centre of the commandery and declared that, since they were to leave for Portsmouth in two days’ time, they were to spend the intervening period preparing for the journey. Horses were to be rested, weapons put in good order, and repairs made to any tears or snags in clothing. They were also to ensure that the beards which every brother was constrained to grow in accordance with the Templar Rule were neatly trimmed, as well as their hair shorn to an acceptable length. The next morning, the preceptor said, all of the men-at-arms in the contingent would present themselves for inspection by Draper Emilius, while the knights would take the responsibility of ensuring that they and their squires were ready to embark.

The preceptor’s decree made Bascot’s task of speaking to each of the brothers, both those regularly based in the commandery and the ones belonging to the contingent, much easier. Within the organised muddle of men honing swords, repairing rips in tunics with needles and lengths of gut, or sitting patiently while a comrade used a sharp knife to shear off excess growth in hair or beard, he was able to approach small groups of two or three brothers at a time and tell them the preceptor had asked him to confirm, before the contingent left the enclave, that no one had noticed anything suspicious on the night of Elfreda’s murder. He also asked each of the men in which part of the enclave they had been sleeping.

All of the men’s responses to the first part of his question were, as he had expected, in the negative. None claimed to have heard or seen anything unusual and had, for the most part, taken their night’s rest undisturbed. By taking note of those who had slept in the same locations, he was able to crosscheck that their claims were true. The men stationed with the horses in the makeshift pen out on the hillside had also passed a quiet night and had neither seen nor heard anything untoward. Only one of the brothers he questioned, a young man-at-arms from the contingent, had said that he could not be sure, since he had been taken with gripes in his belly for almost all of that night.

“A couple of hours after I lay down on my pallet in the stable, I had to rush to the jakes,” he admitted shamefacedly, and guffaws broke out from the men who were with the young soldier when Bascot asked the question. “I was back on my pallet before the bell for Matins sounded,” he added, “but if anyone was about in the preceptory, I don’t think I would have noticed them, ‘cause the pains were really bad.”

He was the recent initiate, Bascot recalled, who had received a reprimand from Hamo for not being in command of his short sword on the day Elfie’s body had been found. It was more than likely his sour stomach had stemmed from anxiety about his lack of proficiency with the weapon.

The Templar had then questioned each of the men-at-arms regularly based in the enclave as well as the lay brothers and servants. The responses were the same as those from the men of the contingent. He was relieved to find his careful enquiry had been pointless.

At a late hour in the afternoon, Roget came to the commandery to tell Bascot the result of his questioning of the inhabitants of Butwerk. The captain’s disappointment was evident in his manner when Bascot came out to the gate to speak to him.

“I have found nothing that can help us find this
chien, mon ami
,” Roget said. “No one saw either Elfreda or her killer or heard anything of their passage to the preceptory. It is as though the pair of them were wraiths that moved in the shadows, invisible to all.” He looked at the Templar hopefully. “Have you learned anything? Anything you can tell me, that is.”

Bascot, in turn, shook his head. “Nothing, either that I am allowed to tell you, or otherwise.”

“Then I fear we will never discover who committed this despicable crime,” Roget said disconsolately. The captain hawked and spat. “I am off to find a jug of good wine and the company of a complaisant woman,” he said. “I hope I will see you once more before you leave but, if I do not, I bid you fare well against the infidel.”

As the evening drew to a close, and there remained only one more day before Bascot was due to leave, he found himself with a surprising reluctance to depart. It seemed that God had endowed him with a talent for tracking down the perpetrators of such atrocious crimes but now, when that ability was so desperately needed, it had failed him. Although he had never felt any conceit for his accomplishments—it was God’s gift and not his own skill that was the cause of his success—he wondered if he was now in danger of falling prey to the sin of pride. If it was God’s will that the identity of the murderer be revealed, it would be done, whether Bascot was in Lincoln or not. With a prayer beseeching heaven to aid d’Arderon in his dilemma, the Templar ruminated on the other cause of his disinclination to leave.

In the spring of 1199, when he had finally managed to escape the Saracens after his years of incarceration in the Holy Land, he had stopped on the island of Sicily as he made his way back to England. There, begging on a wharf in the port of Palermo, he had noticed a young mute boy who was suffering from malnutrition and looked to be near death. Bascot had been struck with pity for the lad’s plight and had persuaded the boy to become his servant. As he had found the youngster on St. John’s day, he had given him the name of Gianni, a diminutive of the Italian name of the saint. Together they had travelled back to England and, during the two years Bascot had stayed in Lincoln castle, the lad had served him devotedly. With the passage of time, the Templar had come to regard Gianni with the same affection he would have bestowed on a son of his own loins.