Death of a Squire

Twenty-nine

Bascot felt the tiredness in his bones as he made his way up the stairs to Nicolaa’s chamber. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. It was an hour past Compline and he had yet to give his report to the castellan. After sending Gianni to bed in the barracks, he and Ernulf had taken Joanna to a room off the armoury and questioned her. Anger had pushed through her tears as she had told them all of the tale, of her mother’s cupidity and intransigence, of Hubert’s demands and, finally, of her love for Tostig.

“We knew it was only a matter of time before my mother found out about us, Tostig and me,” she had said, her mouth quivering as she fought the urge to sob, “but we had thought to force her acceptance of our union. Tostig knew of her theft of the king’s revenues and of Copley’s traffic with the outlaws. He was going to threaten to reveal it to Sir Gerard unless she gave us her blessing.”

Joanna shook her head and then bowed it in her hands. When she lifted it her face was full of misery. “We needed only a few days, until King John should be here. Tostig said that would be the best time to do it, for my mother was all agog to please the king. She would have been too fearful of his displeasure to have done other than as we asked.”

“And Hubert found out about you and Tostig before you could carry out your plan?” Bascot had prompted.

“That maggot!” Joanna’s vehemence was plain. “We made certain he would regain his senses before we hanged him,” she said with bitter satisfaction, “and know the fate that awaited him. I watched Tostig kill him with pleasure.”

“And the charcoal burner and his family, did you watch their deaths with pleasure, too?” Bascot could not hide his anger.

Joanna’s shoulders slumped. “No,” she whispered. “Neither Tostig nor I had any joy in that.” She had lifted her head defiantly. “But that was your fault, Templar. If you had left well enough alone and not gone chasing into the forest with your questions…”

These last words kept ringing in Bascot’s mind as he reached the top of the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Nicolaa’s chamber. When he went in he found the castellan seated, as usual, at her desk, and Gerard’s brother, William, standing by the fireplace with a cup of wine. Two torches flared in wall sconces, giving the room a bright illumination.

“My husband has gone to keep vigil at Tostig’s bier,” Nicolaa said by way of explaining the sheriff’s absence. Bascot nodded. He was not surprised. The evidence that Gerard Camville felt genuine grief for the death of his servant had been plain when he had overridden the castle priest’s protests and ordered that the body of the dead forester be placed in the castle chapel to await burial. “He may be a murderer,” he had said to the shocked cleric, “but he was my loyal servant. If I show God how much I valued him in life then perhaps our Good Lord will be compassionate when Tostig stands before him at death. Now, get out of my way, priest.”

William offered Bascot the wine jug as Nicolaa invited him to be seated. “I gave orders for Melisande and Copley to be detained at her home under guard until I should know the king’s pleasure in the matter,” she said. “You have left Joanna under lock and key?”

Bascot nodded. “Ernulf has her secured.”

Nicolaa stood up from her seat but motioned for Bascot to keep to his when he would have risen. “I need to move,” she said with a small smile. “My limbs are so weary that if I do not stir them, my feet will take root in the floorboards.”

She took a few steps to the end of the room, then paced back. “What did the girl Joanna tell you, de Marins? Did she confirm the dairymaid’s tale?”

“For the most part. Hubert did proposition Bettina and threaten her with ravishment if she did not comply…”

“So the little maker of buttermilk was telling the truth?” William said.

“Yes, she was,” Bascot replied, “except she, and the other villagers, omitted to tell us that it was two nights before Hubert was killed that he first demanded she meet him.”

At William’s look of confusion, Nicolaa interrupted. “I have not told William all of the tangle, de Marins. I thought it best to wait until it was confirmed by Tostig’s paramour. He does not yet know how all of this began.”

Bascot took a sip of his wine and spoke directly to the sheriff’s brother. “According to Joanna, she and the forester took advantage of any occasion that Melisande was absent from her home or early abed to spend the night together in the hunting lodge. On the night that Hubert waited in vain for the dairymaid, he saw them together in the forest. The next day he got Bettina alone in one of the castle cowsheds and berated her for not coming to meet him, demanding that she turn up the next night or he would take her then and there on the bare boards of the floor. Frightened, she promised she would do as he asked. Then Hubert asked her the identity of the girl he had seen with Tostig the night before and Bettina told him she was the daughter of a wealthy widow in Lincoln. Hubert laughed and said she was a toothsome piece and he had a fancy to have a turn with her himself. He told Bettina to tell Tostig of his desire and, if the forester proved unwilling to share his bawd, then he, Hubert, would apprise the sheriff of the use to which his servant was putting the hunting lodge.”

Bascot shrugged. “Whether the squire was serious about carrying out his threat we will never know, but both Bettina and Tostig had no cause to doubt it, if only because Hubert had shown himself relentless in his pursuit of the dairymaid.”

“I knew he was a singularly unpleasant boy, but I never suspected he was capable of such villainy,” William said.

Bascot nodded. “He was sly enough not to reveal his true nature to his elders, but your other squires and pages knew of it and had good reason to hate him. He seems to have been a boy who had never learned to keep his appetites under control. And he had become so accustomed to exploiting any weakness he found in others, or in gaining an advantage by threatening to reveal a secret they nurtured, that he had come to believe that he would never come to any harm by doing so. And that is why he failed to recognize the danger of trying to use Tostig in such a manner.”

“What happened when Bettina gave the forester Hubert’s message?” William asked. “Did Tostig and the dairymaid devise the plan to kill him?”

The Templar shook his head. “No. When Bettina told the forester of her conversation with the squire, Tostig was understandably furious. He told Bettina that she was, on the following night, to do as she had done before, stay in the village and tell her uncle to again close the gates and guard them against intrusion. If asked, they were to deny any knowledge of the matter. And they did as they were told. But they did not realise that Tostig was going to kill Hubert; they thought he meant only to give him a beating or perhaps threaten to expose the squire to his lord. When they learned what the forester had done, they feared to be punished for their own involvement.

“Joanna told me that she waited with Tostig for Hubert to arrive at the old hunting lodge where he expected to find a thoroughly cowed Bettina. The squire knew the area well, apparently, from previous visits to Lincoln and accompanying you, Sir William, on numerous hunts. It is possible he may have used the old lodge for dalliance before. When Hubert arrived, he found Joanna in the dairymaid’s stead. While she pretended acquiescence to his lust, Tostig came up behind and rendered him speechless-and senseless-by half-strangling him with a thin cord.”

Bascot took a swallow of wine before he continued. “Although it was their intent to kill him, they did not want to leave his body there; it was too close to the new hunting lodge where Tostig had his bed and belongings. So they trussed Hubert’s hands and took him away from the area, to the oak where they hanged him, because it grew by one of the main tracks through the forest. Tostig wanted it to appear that the murder had been carried out by someone from the town, not anyone associated with the forest and its inhabitants. It was common knowledge among the castle servants that Hubert was held in extreme dislike by his peers, and even with hatred by some of them. Tostig wanted the hunt for the murderer to be behind the city walls, not in the woodland where he lived and worked.”

“That was why the boy’s body was left clothed, and his dagger in his belt,” Nicolaa interjected. “To make it appear that Hubert had been killed over some private quarrel with a person of his acquaintance, and not for profit by someone in the forest.”

“In retrospect,” Bascot added, “it was a simple plan and should have worked. But things began to go wrong for Tostig almost from the start.”

“The poachers, you mean?” said William.

“That was the first problem to plague him, yes, but it was not an insurmountable one,” said Bascot. “When he came to ‘discover’ the body the following morning and found the slaughtered deer, Joanna said he considered cutting Hubert down and stripping him to make it look as though the poachers had killed the squire, but he feared that to do so would bring the very thing he didn’t want, an active search throughout the woodland, so the forester left the squire’s body as it was in the hope that his original plan would still work. And it might have, for it seemed unlikely that outlaws would have left such valuables as his clothes and dagger behind if they had killed the boy. But it was after he had dealt with the matter of the poachers that a much greater difficulty arose.”

“Something to do with Bettina, I presume?” William said.

“Yes. Tostig had neglected to tell the villagers-including Bettina-that he had moved the boy and hanged him near the track, not at the old hunting lodge. And when you and your brother went to question the villagers about Hubert’s death, you did not mention where it was that he had been found, did you?”

William thought for a moment. “No, we did not.”

“So, when I went to the village the following morning they believed that the boy had been hanged at the place where he had ordered the dairymaid to meet him. When Gianni found Bettina hiding-and she had concealed herself for fear of being recognised and perhaps remembered as seen in conversation with Hubert-she blurted out the tale that she told to protect herself and the villagers. But it led me to search where Tostig did not want me to go-the grounds of the old hunting lodge.”

“So it was he that fired the arrow at you on the day of the hunt?”

“It was. He had heard Alain and Renault speak of seeing me ahead of them that morning and he tracked me. When he saw me kneel to look at the marks Hubert’s boots had made on the ground he was worried about what implications I might draw from them, and so he fired the shaft. He didn’t mean to miss. If I had been killed it would have been assumed that a stray arrow meant for the deer had caused it. I was too close to where he had apprehended the boy, you see. And I kept on asking questions. He was worried that, in the end, I might get answers.”

“And the charcoal burner and his family-what part did they play in all of this?”

Here Bascot gave a deep sigh and put his wine cup down. “Their deaths might have been avoided if I had brought the burner into the castle for questioning on the day that I went to see him. The fact that I did not consigned them to their fate.”

“How so?” William asked.

“Tostig followed me when I went to the burner’s mounds. Everyone in the forest knew of his liaison with Joanna, including Chard and his sons. It would have been impossible for the pair to keep their meetings secret from people who live in the forest and know and use all of its byways. But Chard was a truculent man and, unlike the villagers, had nothing to fear from the sheriff. While he may only have guessed that Tostig had murdered the squire, he had sure knowledge of the extra purpose to which the forester put the hunting lodge. Tostig told him to say nothing of Joanna if he was asked and the charcoal burner agreed, but when I threatened Chard with the sheriff’s authority, the forester was worried that if I returned, the charcoal burner would tell what he knew. Especially since Adam, in an attempt to forestall me from further questioning of his father, told me the partial truth of seeing a man and a woman on a forest track. I had assumed the pair to be Hubert and a woman he had an assignation with, but Tostig did not know that, and feared Chard would reveal that it was himself and Joanna.”

“So the forester killed them all, including the youngest son, who was only a small boy.” William’s voice was heavy.

“Yes, he did,” Bascot replied.

“I cannot say that I feel much sympathy for my squire,” William said. “It would appear that the forester had a great love for his paramour and that he also put much value on his post as my brother’s servant. By threatening to defile the girl and jeopardise Tostig’s position, Hubert provoked his own death, grievous as that may be. But the burner and his sons-that is different. They were the innocents in all of this.”

They all fell silent at his words and stayed so until Nicolaa rose and poured them all more wine.

“The day that you went to rescue your servant,” William said heavily, “and Tostig denied knowledge of a track that would lead me to your aid-then, too, he must have been lying, in the hopes of provoking your death at the hands of the outlaws.”

“I do not know for certain, my lord, but it is possible, even probable. He was not aware of the information that Gianni possessed, but since I would have gone on investigating the murder of your squire if I survived the confrontation with the brigands, it is most likely he would have welcomed my capture, or death, at their hands. If he had been successful in keeping you from assisting me, that is most likely what would have happened.”

“Thanks be to God that Eadric decided to speak up, then,” William said fervently. “Was he not privy to Tostig’s culpability?”

“No,” Nicolaa replied. “He knew of Copley and his arrangements with the brigands, but he also knew that Tostig had warned the agister that he would not betray him as long as he kept his unlawful activities out of Gerard’s chase. Of Tostig’s liaison with Joanna, and the killing of the squire, Eadric knew nothing. He was most often away from the area, in the southern part of the bailiwick, and did not keep company with the villagers in the north.”

William turned to Bascot. “But you weren’t aware of any of this at the time, de Marins. How did you discover that it was Tostig that had murdered Hubert?”

“Something my young servant, Gianni, overheard. One day in the hall he heard two merchants talking about Tostig and ‘his pretty town piece.’ One of the men said that it was only a matter of time before the forester’s lechery was discovered and that would put an end to his trysts in ‘the bower in the greenwood.’ It was also said that if the forester had been riding his horse instead of his leman on the night the squire was killed, it might have been him that caught Fulcher instead of Copley. Gianni remembered that Tostig had told me that he had not been in the area where Hubert was killed at the time the squire met his death, saying he had gone to the southern part of the chase and, due to his horse throwing a shoe, had not arrived back at the lodge until well past the middle of the night. Why had he lied? It could have been merely to cover up his relationship with a woman, but could it have been more than that? Was he hiding something else, something that might be connected to the deaths of Hubert and the charcoal burner’s family? Gianni decided it was worthwhile to try and find out.

“So he set out to go to the village and ask them the name of the forester’s paramour. Gianni reasoned that the villagers must know who the girl was and he could, through written questions to the village priest, get them to reveal her name. Once he knew her identity she could then be questioned about Tostig’s whereabouts on the night of the killing. He should not have gone alone, I know, and should have told me instead, but like many a young lad, he envisioned himself being lauded as a hero and impressing everyone with his cleverness.”

Bascot paused as he remembered the fear that had snatched at his heart the day Gianni had gone missing. “He became frightened, however, once he was out in the forest on his own and decided to turn back. That was when Edward snatched him and took him to the outlaw called Green Jack.”

“So Tostig had nothing to do with that?”

“No, it was pure accident. Edward just happened to come along as Gianni was trying to find his way back to Lincoln and he grabbed the boy, thinking he would fetch a goodly ransom for Jack’s band.

“When Gianni was safe and told me what he had heard I went to see the villagers. They were still fearful of Tostig, but were now even more frightened of the sheriff, since one of their own had been hanged just that day. I had thought to overcome any reluctance they might have had in telling me Joanna’s name by reminding them of their knowledge of Edward’s complicity with the outlaws. But I had no need to take such a precaution. As soon as I mentioned Tostig they blurted out, without further prompting, what had really happened on the night Hubert met his death.”

William Camville got up and threw another log on the fire, mulling over what he had heard before saying, “And then the two of you concocted this scheme to get Tostig to reveal himself?”

“It was the only way, William,” Nicolaa said. “We had enough proof to satisfy us that the forester was the murderer and, if it hadn’t been for all this talk of Hubert being privy to plots hatched against the king, he could just have been arrested and stood trial. But the rumours had to be proved to be unfounded as a reason for the killing, since they were becoming generally accepted as a motive, so we used Melisande Fleming and her crimes against the crown to provide an excuse to provoke Tostig into revealing his guilt, and the real reason for Hubert’s death.”

William took a sip of his wine. “And the forester’s crimes were all for naught. If your servant overheard two townsmen speaking so openly about him and Fleming’s daughter, it is more than likely their liaison would soon have become common knowledge. It does not take long for such gossip to spread. Hubert’s murder brought the forester and his paramour little gain. And the Chard family none at all.”

Bascot nodded in agreement, as did Nicolaa, but she added, “But are not all murders profitless in the end, messires, when at our own death we stand in judgement before the highest lord of all?”

Fulcher found Green Jack by accident. He had been able to track him south from the tree which Leila said the outlaw chief had climbed on the day Fulcher had crossed the river with the Templar, but he was not completely sure if he was headed in the right direction. He had found old trails that looked as though they had been recently used; a few broken twigs and branches that seemed to have been snapped by recent passage and one spot that looked, and smelled, as though it had been soiled by human excrement and urine. What he could not determine with any certainty was whether any of the signs were of recent origin, or if they had been made by men and not animals. The trail had stayed close to the course of the river.

Just as he was near to a reluctant decision to abandon the hunt for his enemy, he spied a vixen creeping from a hole in what he took to be the edge of a bramble-covered bank. In front of the bank a small trickle of a stream meandered its way to the river. He dropped behind a fallen log and watched her. His stomach was rebelling against the raw fish he had been taking from the river to sustain him. If he was canny, he might have red meat to eat tonight. Wrapped about his shoulders was a rope made of braided river weed that he had fashioned just like those he had done as a child so long ago. It would make a good snare to catch the fox.

The vixen did not venture far, however. Nose thrusting, she crept to the edge of the stream, lapped a few mouthfuls of water, then turned tail and ran back into the hole. Fulcher crept forward and, with care, lay flat on the ground to spy through the opening and see if he could locate her nest, thinking it would be a burrow in the base of the bank. What he saw, however, surprised him, for there, instead of a lair in the dank earth, was a dark tunnel and, at the end of it, daylight could be seen. Fulcher straightened and made a further inspection of the opening into the tunnel. Now he could see that it was man-made, with twigs and ivy artfully plaited together to hide the larger space behind.

Retracing his steps to where he had hidden to watch the fox, Fulcher climbed a tree. From the top of it he could see over what he had taken to be the tussocky swell of a hummock in the earth, and could make out that there was indeed a clearing beyond. He could not see into it, but the sparseness of the treetops indicated that there was nothing but low growth inside the circle of the prickly hedge.

It was then that he caught a whiff of wood-smoke. Faint, but unmistakable, and with it the scent of charred flesh. Quickly he returned to his hiding place. Someone was on the other side of the tunnel. Straining his ears, he could not make out any sound, but he settled himself down to wait.

Light was just beginning to glimmer in an overcast sky when there was a movement at the aperture in the bottom of the hedge. Fulcher, tired but still awake, watched as a man wriggled through the cleft then heaved himself upright, pulling a long stout stick behind him. After propping himself up on its length, the man slowly moved towards the stream, appearing to be in some pain from his left leg, which he was dragging behind him. There could be no mistaking the identity of the figure. Tendrils of dead ivy were wound about the arms and shoulders of the man, and the dirty gold colour of his beard glistened with dew. It was Green Jack. Fulcher smiled. The rope of river weed would make a snare that would catch a man just as easily as a fox.

Thirty

K ING J OHN’S ENTRY INTO L INCOLN WAS TRIUMPHAL, despite the intermittent sleeting rain and biting cold, and the warnings of the old legend that said calamity would befall any king who entered the city. The people of the town lined the streets to watch as their monarch passed before them, his figure resplendent in purple and gilt, astride a snow-white charger caparisoned in the same colours. He waved and smiled at his subjects from the warmth of a fur-lined cloak and hat, leading a procession of knights, squires and pages. Beside him, his new young wife, Isabelle, barely thirteen years of age, peeped out at the throng from the depths of her hood and smiled in her turn, albeit tremulously. Every time she did so, the crowd redoubled its shouts of welcome, strewing garlands woven of winter leaves and berries in front of the procession to proclaim their joy.

Lincoln castle’s reception was no less warm. Ernulf and his men-at-arms lined the inner side of the huge eastern gate into the bail, all at attention. The metal of their caps was polished bright as a summer sun and the Haye badge of a twelve-pointed star of red glowed proudly against its silver background on the breast of their tunics.

At the entrance to the new keep, Gerard and Nicolaa awaited the monarch and his queen. Beside them stood their son, Richard, and down the stairs on either side were ranged the barons and knights that had come to do the king honour and stand witness to Scotland’s pledge of fealty. John, greeting all affably, led his young wife up the stairs and into the hall, where a feast of no less than ten courses was laid out for the company.

Bascot stayed apart from the throng until later that evening, when a more simple meal was served. He took a place near the back of the hall, at a table set aside for Lincoln’s household knights, and viewed the company that was assembled on the dais.

The Templar had only seen the king a couple of times before, in the days when John had been just a young prince, but he seemed not to have changed much in appearance since then. He was about Bascot’s own age, a few years past thirty, of medium height and with dark auburn hair. The young woman who had so recently become his wife sat beside him. She was very pretty, almost lushly so, Bascot noticed, with a ripe figure that belied her youth and a beguiling smile that was turned with frequency on her new husband and less often, but with only a little less radiance, on the company that surrounded them.

Nicolaa and Gerard, as hosts, flanked their royal guests. Ranged along the high table with them were various barons, William Camville and Richard de Humez among them, and a phalanx of prelates of high rank. Scattered amongst these were those ladies who had accompanied their lords on the trip to Lincoln, while Richard Camville, as son of the sheriff and castellan, had claimed the privilege of serving the king, standing behind John’s chair with basin and ewer at the ready for the monarch to rinse his hands, and a piece of crisply folded linen for use as a towel.

There was a multitude of squires and pages in attendance on the company, both from Lincoln’s household retinue and those of the visiting barons. Among them Bascot saw Alain and Renault serving one of the tables that flanked the dais and, farther back, young Hugo and Osbert waited on a group of ladies that included Alys and Alinor. Near them, accompanied by the castle chaplain, was Baldwin, his eyes alight with elation as he gazed on the king.

The evening went smoothly. Nicolaa’s lady troubadour played for the king’s pleasure and was rewarded by John with a gold piece and an appreciative glance at her ample bosom. Minstrels roamed the aisles, strumming rebec, lyre and viol. The freshly strewn rushes on the floor gave off a pleasant herbal tang and the castle hounds behaved themselves. On high perches behind the exalted company, falcons peered down at the assemblage with sharp predatory eyes. Bascot knew that the sheriff intended one of them, a fine gerfalcon, as a gift for the king. Wine flowed freely throughout the evening, but no one over-imbibed. Torches flared at regular intervals along the walls to illuminate the huge room, and thick beeswax candles gave extra radiance to the company on the dais. It was all very decorous. Only the strained look on Nicolaa’s face and the watchful glances William Camville gave his monarch would have given a hint that these two were on edge; both fearful of John’s reaction to the rumours of treason that had surrounded the squire’s death.

The next day saw the reception of King William of Scotland, come from his quarters in the guest lodge of the abbey at Torksey. The two kings met on a knoll just outside the walls of Lincoln and there John received homage from William for the lands the Scottish king held in England. It was a formal ceremony, William going down on one knee and placing his hands between John’s in acknowledgement of his acceptance of the other as lord. An old wrangle, this warring for rights of sovereignty over the disputed lands, one going back many years. The assembled company gave a great sigh of relief when the deed was done. John’s satisfaction was evident, his supremacy recognised in front of a plenitude of witnesses. He presided with extreme good humour over the feast that followed in the castle hall. The only marring of the day’s bonhomie was the arrival of a messenger from London with the news that Bishop Hugh had breathed his last. The emissary also told them that the body of the bishop was being brought back to Lincoln, and would, in accordance with Hugh’s wishes, be interred in the grounds of the cathedral. After a brief respectful silence followed by a short prayer, John announced his intention of staying for the obsequies; whereupon William of Scotland proclaimed that he also would remain and join with the English king in paying their final respects to the saintly bishop.

Bascot stayed apart as much as he could from the mass of people that crowded the bailey and hall, his thoughts still on Tostig and the murders the forester had committed. His own part in the discovery of the man’s guilt still bothered him, mainly because of Joanna’s words blaming his persistence in the investigation for the deaths of the charcoal burner and his sons. His satisfaction at discovering the perpetrator of the crime was tainted by the burden of responsibility that had accompanied it. He began to think again of rejoining the Templar Order. But, if he did, could he bear leaving Gianni to the care of others?

Late that night, as he was sitting in Ernulf’s quarters, ruminating once again on what he should do for the future of both himself and his servant, the serjeant came in from a last check on his men and the castle defences.

“The lords and ladies are all abed, thanks be to God. I’ll be glad when this royal visit is over. As will Lady Nicolaa, I’ll warrant.” The serjeant poured himself a cup of ale and pulled off his boots before sitting down beside Bascot.

“You are up late, my friend,” Ernulf said to him. “Is the bed I gave you too hard to induce a restful night?” He cast an eye at Gianni, curled up fast asleep on a straw pallet in the corner.

“No,” Bascot replied. “I am thankful for it. I have slept on far worse.”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt you have. Still, sleep is not always dependent on a soft couch, is it?”

Bascot shook his head and made no reply. Ernulf, seeing his mood, changed the subject. “I’ve just been talking to an old comrade that rode in here today from Torksey. Strange doings been going on there, it seems.”

Bascot roused himself to be sociable. “How so?”

“Two bodies found floating near the banks of the Trent, tied to one another at the wrists. Vagrants, by the look of them. Or brigands. Unkempt hair and beards, a few scraps of ragged clothing left on their bodies. Both had wounds, one an arrow-hole in his leg, the other’s back and face a mass of bruises and gashes.”

Bascot looked up, startled. “Did your friend say what they looked like?”

“The one with the arrow wound was yellow bearded and thickset. He’d been throttled, his larynx mangled. My friend said he had some twists of dead ivy wrapped around his arms.”

“And the other?” Bascot asked, almost expecting the answer. Gianni had described Green Jack to him and the Templar had told Ernulf.

The serjeant’s expression was knowing. “Sounded just like Fulcher, the brigand that Roget’s men beat almost to a pulp. Had a knife wound in his chest. Probably bled to death.”

“You said they were tied together?” Bascot’s mouth suddenly tasted sour.

“Aye,” Ernulf confirmed. “Tight as lice in a beggar’s armpit. The bindings were river weed.”

The serjeant poured another cup of ale and handed it to Bascot. “Looks like Fulcher kept the promise you told me about. Made sure Green Jack kept him company on his journey to hell.”

I T WAS EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THAT O SBERT CAME to the barracks and asked to speak to Bascot. “Lady Nicolaa sends a message from the king. You are to attend him in his chamber-that is, the one that is usually Lady Nicolaa and Sir Gerard’s bedchamber-at the top of the keep.”

Bascot straightened his tunic and pulled on his boots. “Did she say what it is that the king wants of me?” he asked as he splashed cold water from a ewer on his face.

Osbert shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything bad,” he replied cheerfully. “She didn’t look unhappy at sending for you.”

Bascot followed Osbert across the bail. Servants and animals were just beginning to stir, shaking themselves awake in readiness for the onerous demands of another day tending to the needs of a castle overflowing with guests. The page trailed through the hall in front of Bascot, then up a flight of stairs to a room Bascot had never been in before, a well-appointed chamber with a large bed set in a wall space and draped with covers and hangings of finely worked tapestry. Alongside the bed was a huge carved-oak clothes press and an ironbound chest secured with triple locks. Under a narrow recessed window was a small table. On its surface was a flagon of wine and cups, a holder with thick lighted candles, and a sheaf of parchment and writing implements. It was at this table that the king was seated, sunk deep in the depths of a furred bed-gown, his feet comforted by soft shoes of lambskin. In one corner a brazier of charcoal burned. There was no sign of the queen.

“Sit down, Templar,” John said once Osbert had announced Bascot and left the room, motioning towards a stool. “And pour yourself a cup of wine. It is good Rhenish, my favourite. Nicolaa knows my tastes.”

Bascot went down on one knee and bowed his head in obeisance before accepting the king’s offer. John’s saturnine gaze regarded him obliquely for a few moments before he spoke.

“I have been told by Lady Nicolaa of the part you played in discovering the man responsible for the death of Hubert de Tournay,” John began. “It seems that without your assistance the forester would never have been found guilty of the crime.”

Bascot hesitated to make any response to this statement. He did not know how much of the story Nicolaa had told the king. Was John aware that the boy had been the source of a rumour about a plot to undermine his crown? Had he been told that Nicolaa’s own husband and her brother-by-marriage, Richard de Humez, had been suspected of complicity?

“I am pleased to learn that Lady Nicolaa holds my help in such high regard,” he finally said noncommittally. “But, in truth, Your Grace, many others contributed to the discovery of Tostig’s guilt. My own part was negligible, for I did not have any knowledge of the squire before his death.”

John had been watching him carefully as he answered. Now he leaned back his head and laughed.

“There speaks a diplomatic answer,” John remarked with a chuckle. “Say nothing of import and cast no aspersions.” The king shook his head, amused. “You have no need to be careful, de Marins. Nicolaa has told me all, of the machinations the boy hinted at, as well as the possible culpability of some of my barons. That is why I value Nicolaa so much. She is loyal and she is honest. Speaks when there is need and stays quiet when there is not. I could wish more of my nobles were made of such stuff, especially the de Tournay family.”

His tone became heavier. “Godfroi came to me decrying the rumour that was being bruited abroad about his family. His protestations were vociferous. So much so that it made me not of a mind to believe him. I will ensure a sharp eye is kept on him and his brother in future.” Bascot felt a small stab of pity for Godfroi. Whether he was guilty of treason or not, the murder of his half brother had affected the de Tournay family in more ways than one.

John rose, his mood seeming to have plunged into darkness as he picked up his wine cup and walked to the window. It was deeply silled on the inside, and all that could be seen through the narrow slit of its opening was a patch of dull grey sky. He stood looking out of the embrasure for some moments and when he spoke again, it was on a completely different topic.

“You were given as an oblate to the church when you were young, were you not, de Marins?”

“Yes, Sire, I was.”

“I, too, was entrusted to the care of monks during the years of my childhood. To the tender mercies of the abbot at Fontevrault. I have no doubt that the rest of my family hoped I would stay there for all of my days, permanently immured in an anchorite’s cell.” The king’s voice was bitter as he, no doubt, recalled the perpetual squabbling that had plagued his family, and also of how he had betrayed both father and brothers in their never-ending struggle for supremacy.

Then he gave a short bark of laughter and lightened his tone, saying musingly, “How different both our lives might have been, eh, de Marins, had we been left to the guidance of the good brothers? I might never have been a king, or you a Templar. Perhaps it would have been better so.”

Bascot made no reply. There was none he could make. John walked back to his chair and sat down, pulling, as he did so, a piece of parchment from the pile that lay on the table. “I have been persuaded by Lady Nicolaa to give you a reward for your service. The fief that your father held before his death is still vacant of possession, having since that time been in the charge of the crown. I have promised Lady Nicolaa that I will restore it to you.”

Taking the chance of offending the king, Bascot interrupted him. “My lord, much as I would be honoured by such a boon, I cannot hold land. I would be forsworn of my vow of poverty.”

Again John smiled. “I can see why Nicolaa appreciates your service. Most men only remember their promises to God when they lie on their deathbeds. But let us deal with that obstacle later. First, hear me out.”

He held up the parchment in his hand. “This is confirmation of your fief, de Marins. It only needs your acceptance. However, there is a condition attached if you should decide to take it.”

John’s dark eyes sparkled as he enjoyed the obvious discomfiture of the Templar. It amused him to see that other men besides himself might be prey to the horns of a dilemma. “The fief is a small one, as you know. It can be ably managed by a castellan of your choosing, but meanwhile you would enjoy the revenues and ultimately have an inheritance to leave any son you may have or”-here the king paused and held Bascot’s eye with his own-“to any male you have chosen for your heir.”

John paused to give weight to his last words, then he continued. “The condition is that you remain in the service of Lady Nicolaa, as a senior knight in her retinue, with liberty to visit your fief when necessary. You will be recompensed for such service out of her own coffers, and well above the usual rate for a household knight. Not only will you have a fief, its revenues and a good salary, but a legacy to pass on as you choose.”

The king laid the paper down on the table. Bascot could see the royal seal dangling from it, thoughts of the benefits to Gianni leaping to his mind, as, he was sure, the king knew they would. John watched him with amusement.

“Well, de Marins,” he said finally. “Is it worth a vow or not?”

After dusk that night Bascot walked across the bail to the old keep where he and Gianni had their quarters when the castle was not filled to capacity with guests. Slowly he climbed the stairs, up three floors and past his usual chamber, then through the archway that led to the ramparts and onto the guard walk that circled the inner side of the wall. It was bitterly cold. The rain had stopped and the wind had stilled. Above was a clear winter sky, stars shining in pinpricks of hard light, looking as though they had been punched into the blackness with the point of a lance. Already, ice was forming on the battlements.

Bascot leaned into one of the parapet’s embrasures, pushing his shoulder against the stone merlon at his side. Not far from him, one of Ernulf’s men-at-arms was pacing his duty round. He saw Bascot, saluted, then turned about and retraced his steps. Something in the stance of the Templar told the guard that Bascot had not come up onto the ramparts to pass a few moments in idle chatter. He wanted to be alone.

Below the castle, spreading south, Lincoln lay like a reflection of the sky, darkness pervading with the occasional glimmer of light from a torch or candle. Bascot threw back the hood of his tunic, felt the icy air swarm onto his neck and ears with the snap of a wolf bite. Reaching up, he undid the thong of his eyepatch and let the leather shield fall loose. Only in solitude did he remove the cover from the pit of ruined flesh that had once been his right eye. Now he welcomed the freedom from constraint.

King John’s words echoed in his mind. Was his father’s fief worth breaking the vows he had taken when he joined the Templars? Poverty, chastity and obedience. He had made those vows not only to the Order, but to God. Even though not now an active member of the Templars he had, for the most part, kept to his promise of poverty, breaking it only for the expenditure of small gifts for Gianni. As for chastity, his thoughts had succumbed to temptation, but his body had not. Obedience was the hard one, for he had not obeyed his senior Templar officers, not since the day he had returned to England and found that his family had all perished during those long years he had been a captive of the Saracens. It had been the compassion of the Order that had kept him in their ranks, not his own honour. What was the wording of the oath? “To obey his Templar Master, or those to whom the Master has given authority, as though the command had come from Christ Himself.”

He looked down on Lincoln town, then up into the night sky. Crystals of ice were beginning to form on his hair and beard and his ears burned with the cold. Silently he prayed for guidance. What was God’s purpose for him? He begged for aid from heaven, some sign that would tell him what to do. But there was no answer.