Death of a Squire

Nine

The morning air was frosty and the breath from Bascot’s mouth, and that of his mount, streamed in the cold air like ragged plumes of smoke as they headed for the forest. The Templar ruminated on Hubert as he rode; thought how he had only the opinions of others for the squire’s character, his personality. He had been painted blackly, as a disagreeable young man, a braggart and a lecher. Had he truly been such? Was there not a trace of good, even in the most evil of men, some redeeming trait not immediately apparent? Bascot thought of the infidel lord in whose household he had been held captive in the Holy Land, and at whose direction the hot iron had been thrust into his eye. Bascot had hated him with all his might, not only for being the enemy and his tormentor, but for the contempt with which the Saracen had regarded any of the Christian faith. Had the opportunity presented itself, Bascot would have willingly-nay, eagerly-taken the infidel’s life, even if it had been at the cost of his own. But on reflection, and with the benefit of hindsight, Bascot had to admit he had seen his captor show kindness to those of his own heathen faith, and had seemed genuinely fond of the many children he had sired on the numerous women of his harem. No doubt he had been viewed as a generous and loving benefactor by those receiving his favour.

The same could be true of Hubert, Bascot thought. He may have been a dutiful and loving son to his mother or have given a few of the women he boasted of bedding some pleasure for being in his company. Or had he been one of those individuals who loves self above all else? To whom consideration for others is never even contemplated, let alone attempted? It was possible, but there could be many other reasons why the boy had formed the character he had seemed to display, and it was difficult to make any kind of judgement of a person who was no longer alive. Perhaps the uncle that was coming to claim the body could enlighten Bascot about the nephew’s nature. If just one person could be found who had liked Hubert, or whom he had perhaps confided in, it might be that the motive for this murder would become clearer.

His pondering had passed most of the journey to the sheriff’s chase and Bascot entered the wood in the wake of the hunting party, broken branches and hoof prints in the mud of the track marking its passage plainly. It was the Templar’s intention to visit the hunting lodge where Bettina had said she had arranged to meet Hubert. It was unlikely that the squire had been there for he had been found some distance away, but Bascot remembered that earlier that year, when he had been asked by Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder of four people in an alehouse, it had been a tiny scrap of cloth found at a place far removed from where they had been killed that had led him in the right direction. It might be he would find such a guide again.

Tostig, the forester, had told him the general direction in which the ruin of the old lodge could be found, near to where the charcoal burner kept the huge mounds in which he burned his wood. A thin stream of smoke, rising almost straight up on the still air, told of the way he must go, away from the path followed by the hunting party, which could be heard farther to the south, the horns blowing almost constantly and the deep belling of the dogs signalling that a quarry had been sighted. Gerard Camville was after wild boar today, a dangerous animal to hunt, with razor-sharp tusks and lightning speed. The lair of one had been discovered by the sheriff’s huntsmen and Camville was eager to test his skill against it, as well as have some of the tasty meat for the castle table. Bascot envied him his pleasure. As a Templar, he was forbidden to engage on a hunt, either with hawk or bow, but he had enjoyed those on which he had accompanied his father in the days of his youth, and the remembrance brought a smile to his lips.

Bascot came upon the old lodge almost by accident, finding the ruin in his path as he nudged his horse in the direction of the smoke. Two of the lodge’s thick wooden walls were still standing, with a part of the roof clinging precariously above the join at which they met. Remnants of the foundations poked above the ground beside them, showing that it had once been a good-sized building, easily housing a large hunting party intent on celebrating their kill, or to give shelter if an overnight stay was planned. Bascot dismounted and tied the reins of the grey to the lower branches of a nearby tree, giving the animal enough slack to allow him to graze on the meagre slivers of grass at its base before he walked over to inspect the ruin.

The wood of the two remaining walls was almost sound. It had some slight infestation of insects but for the main part it stood firm to his touch and the ragged beams of the remaining portion of the roof above seemed solid. There was enough of a covered area to keep out any but the heaviest of rain or snow for a space of perhaps ten feet square. It must have been here that Hubert had intended to have his tryst with Bettina, if the girl had been telling the truth. Bascot carefully inspected the ground, but it seemed undisturbed. There was a pile of desiccated leaves blown haphazardly by the wind into a corner and underneath the moss was soft and unmarked. An old tree branch, whitened and smoothed from exposure to the weather, lay almost in the center of the sheltered space. When Bascot lifted it, the depression beneath looked to have been there for some time, with insects scuttling for cover as light and air penetrated their hiding place. If Hubert had been in this spot, he had left no trace.

As Bascot started to walk around the remains of the other walls, the sounds of the hunt increased, seeming to come nearer. His horse lifted its head and whickered softly, and Bascot went to it and rubbed a hand over its flank to calm it. If the chase came this way, he would have to ensure that he did not impede its progress. It was as he began to untie his mount that he noticed some marks in the earth near the outside edge of one of the remaining walls. He walked over to the spot and knelt down to examine them more closely. The hard-packed soil was deeply scored, two or three ruts on top of one another, ending in a flat impression like that made by the heel of a boot. Bascot looked up at the wall, then across at the faint track that led from the forest on this side. Had Hubert stood here, waiting in vain for the village girl, when he had been attacked? If someone had come up behind him, unheard and unseen while the squire’s attention was fixed on sighting the maid whose body he soon hoped to enjoy, it would have been an easy matter to loop a length of cord around his throat and choke him. As the boy had struggled, kicking out with his feet, his heels could have scored the ruts in the earth, sliding uselessly as he struggled to escape the constriction at his throat. If, as Bascot suspected, Hubert had been rendered unconscious before being hanged, was this the spot where he had first been attacked? But if it was, then why had he been moved such a far distance to the oak tree where he was found?

Bascot walked a pace or two in the lee of the wall to see if there were any other indications of a struggle, some trace that would prove his tentative and unlikely assumption. The sounds from the hunt were growing louder now, but seemed to be coming from two different directions, one nearer than the other. Perhaps more than one quarry had been found and the party had split in two. The Templar was conscious of the need for haste; he did not want to get caught between the hunters and their prey, yet he did not want to leave and perhaps have any other signs of a possible assault on Hubert destroyed by the passage of dogs and horses. Making a quick circuit on the outside of the adjoining wall, he had just decided to remount when he heard the huntsman’s horn blast loud and shrill from the woods that edged the perimeter on the far side of the ruin. At that same moment a huge stag burst from the trees and into the clearing. The beast paused, sides heaving. Its flanks were flecked with foam and saliva dripped from its mouth. For one second the beast’s eye met Bascot’s good one. Fleetingly, he saw the terror and desperation of the animal before it lowered its head, took a few faltering steps then, spurred on by another blast of the horn, sprang once again into flight. Leaping with an inordinate grace over the few remaining stones of the foundation it disappeared into the woods on the other side of the lodge.

It was as he turned to watch the vanishing deer that Bascot felt the arrow. Felt, rather than heard, for the noise of the hunt drowned out the whisper of flight the missile made before it embedded itself in the thickness of the extra tunic he was wearing under his cloak. The tip grazed the flesh covering his ribs and the cloth pulled as the shaft became snarled in the sheepskin padding of his under-tunic. Instinctively he dropped to the ground, protecting his sighted eye with his arm as he rolled into the timbers at the base of the wall. A second later a dog pack burst from the trees, led by two huge mastiffs. Racing across the open ground they continued the chase, their throaty baying echoing after them. Long moments behind were the horses, a powerful roan in the lead on which was mounted William Camville, with Richard de Humez following at some distance. Both held bows at the ready, arrows bristling in the quivers slung on their saddles. Other riders could be heard coming along the track behind them.

Bascot stood up and William’s horse shied at his unexpected appearance. The sheriff’s brother cursed as he fought to bring his mount under control, then changed to an oath of surprise when he realised what had caused the animal’s alarm. Wrestling the startled steed to a halt, he stared at Bascot as de Humez and the rest of the hunt streamed past him.

“De Marins! What are you doing here? Did you sight the stag? Are the dogs still on its trail or have we lost him?”

Suddenly he saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from beneath the fold of Bascot’s cloak. “My God, you’ve been pricked. How badly are you hurt?”

William slid off his horse in one motion and ran towards Bascot, bow still in hand. As he did so the two squires, Alain and Renault, came crashing with their horses through the woods a little distance from where the main body of the hunt had come. Seeing their lord dismounted and running towards Bascot, they came to a standstill. Behind them, from the woods to the south, straggled a few men on foot: a couple of huntsmen and the two foresters, Tostig and Eadric.

“I am not badly wounded,” Bascot assured William. “A scratch, nothing more.”

“Thanks be to God for that,” William replied. “Someone must have loosed at the stag and found you for a mark instead.” He shook his head. “You should know better, de Marins. A hunt is a dangerous place not only for the quarry, but also for the hunter. Even kings have been brought down by a stray arrow, unwisely loosed.”

“I do not think this one was short of its target,” Bascot said, pulling the shaft free of the cloth in which it was imbedded. “Had I not turned when I did, it would have taken me full in the chest.”

“Even so, de Marins, it does not mean that it was intentional. The stag passed this way just moments ago, did it not? No doubt one of the others misjudged the distance and let loose beforetimes.”

“I think not, my lord,” Bascot insisted.

William looked intently at the Templar. “Do you have some reason for believing so? Did you see who aimed the shaft?”

Bascot shook his head.

“Then…?”

“It is the direction from which it came, my lord. Your hunting party approached from the south, did it not?”

“Yes.” William’s face was beginning to show annoyance that the Templar was not making himself clear. “My brother was after boar. We had no beaters with us for deer, but a stag came across our path. Myself and a few others went after it while Gerard stayed with the pig. But I do not see…”

“My lord Camville,” Bascot said, “I was on the other side of the wall when the arrow was loosed. Unless that shaft can miraculously change direction or penetrate solid wood it could not have been loosed at the deer.”

“You mean…” William’s face drew down in consternation as he realised the import of what Bascot had said.

“Exactly, my lord. It was fired from the north, not the south. I was at the edge of the wall and the arrow came from behind its protection. The deer could not have been seen from there. I was the quarry, not the stag.”