Death of a Squire

Six

“Well, Alys, are you going to tell me what Hubert said or not?” Alinor demanded. She stood over her companion, face set in determination, hands clenched into fists and set on her hips.

The other girl looked up at her, soft blue eyes awash with tears. “Yes, I will. But you must promise me that you will not tell Alain, or your father.”

It was the next morning. Outside the weather was gloomy from a light rain that had fallen overnight and the temperature had dropped. The two young women were in a small chamber at the top of the new keep, both wearing gowns of heavy wool as protection against the chill. For the moment, they were the only two occupants of the room, but soon, with the arrival of more guests for the king’s visit, others would invade their privacy. The floor was spread with pallets and covers in anticipation.

Alinor was daughter to Richard de Humez, who was married to Petronille, one of Nicolaa de la Haye’s two younger sisters. Although both her parents were dark haired, Alinor had inherited the Haye glints of copper in her tawny-coloured locks, which now streamed down her back in two long plaits. She was a forceful girl, fifteen years of age, gently rounded and passingly pretty, but with an intractability that she had inherited from her Haye forbears.

The girl she was berating was Alys de Carston, sister to Alain. Alys had lived in the de Humez household for the past three years, since she had been betrothed to Alinor’s younger brother, Baldwin, a boy who was four years her junior. As the two girls were of an age they had been thrown much into each other’s company and had become fast friends. Alys resembled her brother only in her upright posture. She was a gentle girl, with long fair hair that stubbornly curled in tendrils around a heart-shaped face, and with an air of innocence about her that was genuine.

Now she mopped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and said, “It was the time Sir William came to your father’s manor house, in the summer, and brought Hubert with him.”

“I remember,” said Alinor. “When we had that new minstrel from Anjou.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Alys confirmed. “I was in the chapel-Baldwin had just had a bad attack of his illness and I had gone there to offer up a prayer for him-and Hubert came up behind me. I was all alone, and…” She began to sob softly again, but Alinor interrupted her, impatient.

“Get on with it, Alys. What did he say?”

“He…he put his hand on my breast and said that he wanted to bed me.” Now Alys looked up at her companion and her words came in a rush. “I pushed him away, Nora, but he just laughed and said that if I did not he would tell everyone that I had anyway. I told him to go away and leave me alone, that no one would believe him. But…but he sneered at me, said whether they did or not it would still cast doubts on my chastity and your father would look for another bride for Baldwin. He left then, and said he would give me time to think about it, but if I did not, I would be sorry.”

“Why did you not tell me then, Alys? Or at least tell my mother? She is fond of you, and kind. She would have seen to it that Hubert did not trouble you again.” Alinor’s tone had softened at the real distress in her friend’s voice, and she sat down beside Alys and put an arm around her shoulders.

“I did not know what to do, and then Sir William left the next morning and Hubert was gone with him. I thought that perhaps he had taken too much wine and had been foolish only, did not mean what he had said. I tried to forget it. I did not want to think about it.” She raised her tear-stained face to her friend. “Can you understand, Alinor?”

The other girl nodded. “But you still should have told someone. Did he threaten you again when we came to Lincoln?”

“Yes. Almost as soon as we arrived. It was the day before he disappeared. Alain saw him talking to me. In the hall, by the entrance to the kitchen. He-Hubert-had taken hold of my wrist. He wouldn’t let go and then he saw Alain coming towards us.”

“And your brother, did he challenge Hubert?”

“He did not get the chance. Hubert released me and left, hurriedly. Alain asked me what cause Hubert had for being so familiar with me. I…lied. I told Alain that I had tripped and Hubert had merely been helping me to my feet.” She took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. “I don’t know if Alain believed me or not, but I saw him talking to Hubert later, in the bail. It looked as though they were arguing.” She buried her head in Alinor’s shoulder. “Oh, Nora, what if it was Alain who killed him? It would be my fault. All my fault.”

Alinor patted her friend’s shoulder. “No, Alys, not your fault, but Hubert’s own. You have done nothing for which to reproach yourself.”

Alys lifted her head, tears now flowing fast and free. “What shall I do, Nora? Shall I talk to Alain…ask him…?”

“You shall do nothing, little poppet,” Alinor said firmly. “You will leave Alain and this whole coil to me.”

In a corner of the bail a group of squires were at practice with the quintain, a swinging crossbar set with a circle of metal on one side and a heavy bag of sand on the other. The young men were taking turns riding at it, lances poised to strike the metal and, when their aim was successful, trying to avoid the buffet of the sandbag that swung towards their heads in response. A group of pages watched, cheering those who were successful and deriding those who tumbled to the ground.

From a vantage point set at a distance across the bail, by the door of the armoury, William Camville and Richard de Humez watched the young men. Across their line of vision the work of the castle staff went on, carts still arriving with stores of root vegetables, maids milking cows and goats, and the blacksmith busy at his forge.

“Your young men show well, William,” de Humez said. “Mine could learn a thing or two from Renault, or even Alain. Did you take a hand yourself in their training?”

William Camville shook his head. “No, one of my household knights is their mentor. I leave it to him.”

“He has done well in his instruction.”

The conversation petered out, then de Humez gave William a sidelong glance and said, “Has Gerard told you of his intentions in the matter of Hubert’s death?”

“Why not be explicit, de Humez?” William replied with a lazy smile. “You want to know if Gerard had a hand in the boy’s murder.”

De Humez bristled. He was a melancholic man, of middle years and smaller stature than his companion. The Camvilles always engendered a mood of discontent in him, their bold brash manner an affront to what he considered his dignity and, although he did not realise it, a tinge of jealousy for their confidence.

“If he had, I would not expect him to bruit it abroad,” de Humez replied sharply. “Although I would not be surprised if he had done the deed, or ordered it. Your brother is a rash and hasty man, as ill judgement in his past actions has shown.”

William threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I wager you would not accuse Gerard of that to his face.”

De Humez lost his self-righteous pose and became decidedly ill at ease, making no reply. William Camville’s face did not lose its expression of amusement. “Why are you so interested in the death of my squire, Richard? Is it due to his connection with de Vescy-or perhaps because it is rumoured that the boy claimed to have knowledge of secret loyalties to Arthur of Brittany? Are you frightened that if Gerard was in some way responsible that it might taint his reputation with the king-and therefore your own, by reason of you being wedded to his wife’s sister?”

“Of course not,” de Humez replied. “My own loyalty to John is without reproach. After all, my uncle…”

“Yes, Richard, your connection with the constable of Normandy is well known,” William interrupted in a tired voice. “But that was over twenty years ago and your uncle is long dead. And so is King Henry, who was his lord.”

The sheriff’s brother cast a speculative look at his companion, then added, “You, unlike Gerard, were solicitous of Richard, were you not, and stood against John when he and my brother defied Richard’s chancellor? Our present king has a long memory, de Humez. Did you think to cast your lot with Arthur, so you would have no cause to worry that John might remember matters best left forgotten? Were you one of those of whom Hubert spoke as being partisan to Richard’s nephew instead of his brother?”

De Humez turned white at the accusation levelled at him. Instinctively his hand dropped to the sword at his belt, then, recalling that the man at his side possessed a reputation for swordplay that was almost equal to that of his brother, de Humez changed his mind. Instead he gave William an angry glare and strode off across the bailey.

William Camville watched him go, thoughtful. What had started as an irresistible urge to bait the prig whom Gerard had the misfortune to call brother-by-marriage had turned to something more as he had spoken the words. There had been real fear in de Humez’s face when William had questioned his loyalty to King John. Had he inadvertently stumbled on a truth where he had thought only to provoke irritation? Slowly William ambled back towards the keep. He would have to think more on this matter, perhaps talk privately with Nicolaa. If there was any meat on the bones he had inadvertently stirred up, it would be best to chew it thoroughly before offering it to Gerard. And his brother’s wife was a good enough chatelaine to know how best to prepare the dish.