The Alehouse Murders

Ten

Bascot and Gianni left the great hall directly after Nicolaa de la Haye stood and announced that she was retiring. Her husband, Gerard, stayed in his seat, motioning for the servers to refill his wine cup and that of Philip de Kyme, who had moved to sit beside him. Most of the ladies who were staying within the precincts of the castle followed their hostess’ example, leaving the men folk to their wine and talk of old battles, while the visiting merchants and their wives, with lodgings hired in the town, also left. But the bulk of the barons and lesser lords stayed where they were, settling themselves in to enjoy the Haye largesse for as long as it was proffered. There would be sore heads aplenty in the morning but since they were there for pleasure and not for work, as the merchants were, none cared.

When Bascot and Gianni reached their tiny chamber the boy, finally full of food, slumped onto his pallet and within moments was fast asleep. Bascot left the boy to his slumbers and walked up the few steps to the battlements of the tower. The walkway faced south, so that he could see out over the curtain wall to the town spread out below and to where the streets drifted down the hill to the River Witham at the lower end. The night air was fresh from the rain and a small wind was blowing. Above was a canopy of stars, washed with the faint light that never seems to leave the sky at the high point of summer. In the semidarkness a few bats flitted. He removed his eye patch and felt a rush of air cool the withered socket beneath.

As always when up high, the loss of half his sight made him feel slightly dizzy, but long years of practice had made him accustomed to it and he gripped the solid stone of the battlements to steady himself. The light of torches could be seen bobbing here and there as the merchants and their families made their way to their various lodgings. Even within some of the dwellings a light could be seen, though it was long past couvre feu or, as the English speaking population pronounced it, curfew. There would be no fines tonight for those who broke the law and stayed late abroad since the advent of the fair in the morning was considered a valid enough excuse to do so.

His dizziness under control, Bascot leaned onto the stone of the crenellations and let his thoughts drift, planning how he would set about fulfilling the task that Nicolaa de la Haye had given him. The scrap of cloth that Gianni had found he could show to the drapers and weavers gathered for the festivities. It might be worthwhile to visit a few silversmiths and ask about the brooch, to see if they could determine its origin. He would need to visit the Jews and ask if the whereabouts of Samuel in the day or two before he met his death were known. It would also be advisable to visit the three places where the alekeeper had made his deliveries and try to discover if he had been seen at any house other than those at which he was known to have stopped. Of course, if the priest recovered and could identify his assailant, Bascot’s task might be made easier.

Bascot shook his head to clear it. Tomorrow there would be so much activity within the town he would have difficulty getting anyone’s attention for long enough to gain a coherent answer to his questions. The other side to that problem would be that people would be off their guard and he would be able to move comparatively unnoticed through the throng. The scrap of material was, although slight, his best indication of the young woman’s identity. If he could find out who she had been, perhaps then he might also discover the identity of her companion, if the young man had been such, that is. He pondered on that for a moment. Had the boy been her husband? Or a stranger, their only link the manner of their death? There had to be a common thread weaving all of the dead people together and binding them to the murderer. It seemed only fitting that he should start his enquiries with the scrap of material.

Before he went inside to his pallet, the Templar replaced his eye patch, and looked up again at the canopy of stars overhead. Into the peace of the heavens he murmured a prayer for assistance and aid in successfully bringing the murderer to justice.

The next morning the day dawned with as fair a promise of sunshine as any of the townspeople could wish. Before first light there was movement as people gathered in knots of two, three or more, full of anticipation for the festivities. At midmorning there was to be a procession, starting at the principal gate of Stonebow in the lower town and winding its way up Mikelgate and Steep Hill through Bailgate to the Minster where the cathedral was situated. Every guild in the town would be represented, some by a delegation of its members marching in their finest clothes, others by a cart decorated with a scene to display their wares, all accompanied by the same strolling musicians and tumblers that had entertained in the castle hall the night before. The townspeople were already beginning to line the streets, some sitting on stools or benches they had brought with them for the purpose, others claiming an advantageous corner by planting themselves firmly in possession, and for those who were lucky enough to either have a house on the main street or to know someone who had, viewing the procession from the comfort of an open casement in the top storey of the dwelling.

Bascot knew it would be pointless to embark on his queries until the pageant had finished and, since Gianni was all agog to watch it, they climbed to the walkway of the outer wall of the castle bail and got a good vantage point from the battlements. They would see the procession just as it finished the trek up Steep Hill and turned into the grounds of the Minster. Gianni had come prepared for the entertainment by begging some pieces of bread and cheese from the castle cook which he had carefully wrapped in a square of clean linen, and Bascot carried a flask of watered wine at his belt.

They were not alone in their chosen spot. Many of the soldiers from the garrison clustered beside them as well as those of the castle servants who had finished their duties in time to scamper up to the walkway. But in deference to Bascot’s rank and, he suspected, out of consideration for his physical infirmities, he and Gianni were right at the front, and could see the street beneath them clearly through one of the gaps in the crenellations.

The cobblestones below them were thick with people and the hum of conversation. Excited laughter could be heard long before the strains of the musicians accompanying the procession were audible. Finally the leaders of the parade came into view as they passed through the huge arch of Bailgate. An exultant shout went up from the crowd as the most prominent members of the Draper’s guild stepped out from under the arch, their faces red with perspiration as they sweated under the weight of the fine clothes they had donned for the occasion. The sun struck bright on the materials they wore-short summer cloaks in lustrous velvets of blue or green, silken tunics of red, yellow and ivory, and close-fitting caps of softest amber decorated with feathers dyed to match. There was embroidery on every hem and sleeve, and jewels as well, pinned to cap and cloak. They made a magnificent display and the crowd gasped and called out their admiration. Cloth was the main staple of the fair and, as such, deserved pride of place at the head of the procession.

Behind the drapers came the other guilds, first the ones associated with cloth-making such as the weavers, dyers and tailors, then the gold and silversmiths, the parchment makers, the barbers-a wooden pole painted with stripes of red and white carried aloft in front of them-the soap makers and salters, the bakers and carpenters. Many had a cart in their midst, decorated with flowers and strips of cloth, with one or more of the guild members standing inside and displaying samples of their produce or, where possible, actually plying their trade as the carts moved slowly along. Beside and among them the musicians strolled, piping and playing, while the tumblers threaded their way cleverly through the procession and the crowd, deftly catching any pennies that might be thrown their way.

At strategic intervals, Bascot saw, there were pairs of Gerard’s guard, eyes darting amongst the throng, on the look-out for cutpurses. Occasionally one of the soldiers would swoop into the crowd and grab some mean-looking fellow, shake him roughly and issue a warning before letting him go. The sheriff was determined that there would be no charge of laxness against his authority.

When the last of the procession, a few members of the butcher’s guild, passed into the Minster, the crowd flooded behind, laughter and merriment cresting like waves in the wake of a boat. As the last of the revelers disappeared, Bascot and Gianni left the walkway and descended into the bail.

The huge open space was almost empty, only the shrill cries of a goose girl shooing her errant flock back into their pen breaking the unusual stillness. A faint clanging could be heard from the blacksmith’s forge but it was halfhearted and stopped as the Templar and Gianni walked towards the main gate. Down the wooden walkway of the keep’s forebuilding, a party of nobles was descending. Bascot recognised Richard Camville, Nicolaa and Gerard’s son, in the lead, walking beside Conal, Philip de Kyme’s son-by-marriage. Conal was looking straight ahead, his bright fair hair riffling in the breeze and a sullen look on his handsome face, lips pursed and chin high. Richard kept pace with him, slicing a glance at his companion now and then, but saying nothing. Behind them came Gerard and Philip de Kyme, the latter red faced and angry, shouting words lost by distance to Bascot at the descending back of his stepson, while Camville laid a restraining hand on the arm of his friend.

Suddenly de Kyme stopped and turned on the stair. Behind him and Camville were Lady Nicolaa and another woman that Bascot recognised as Sybil, de Kyme’s wife, a tall thin woman with a long face and sad eyes. She was watching her husband and son with an expression that was a combination of anger and grief. De Kyme mouthed something at her and she flinched visibly, then straightened as Lady Nicolaa, copying her husband, laid a hand warningly on her shoulder.

At the bottom of the stairs, which Conal and Richard had just reached, Sybil de Kyme’s son turned and, his hand at his sword, started to run back up the steps towards his mother’s husband. As if with one accord, Richard Camville grabbed his companion forcefully about the shoulders and Gerard, his hand dropping to the blade at his belt, stepped in front of de Kyme. For a moment it was like a tableau as the four men, two young and two middle-aged, glared at each other. Then de Kyme tried to push Gerard aside and scrabbled at his own blade, shouting as he did so. Smaller and slighter, he had no chance of moving the sheriff, who stood like a rock barring his passage. Suddenly Conal shook himself loose of Richard’s grasp and marched back down the steps and across the bail in the direction of the stables. Richard, after a glance at his parents, shook his head and followed him. Camville released his sword hilt, laughed, and then flung an arm about de Kyme and led him off across the bail to the armoury, while Nicolaa and her companion slowly descended the stairs, Sybil de Kyme with faltering steps and an unsteady hand on the rail. Behind them came a group of other ladies, veils and sleeves fluttering, heads together as they spoke in whispers and gave covert glances at the back of Sybil de Kyme.

As the group moved slowly towards the main gate and went through it, trailed by a few younger squires and pages, Ernulf appeared at the top of the forecastle steps, a linen-wrapped bundle under his arm. He saw Bascot and hailed him, signalling him to wait, then trotted down the stairs and over to where he stood.

“A monk from the priory came while the procession was passing,” he said. “Brought the two dead youngsters’ clothing. Seems the nuns got ’em cleaned as best they could and dried ’em in yesterday’s sun before the storm came. Also said that Father Anselm is still alive, but only just. Seems none of his vital organs were damaged, as far as can be told, but he is very weak. Brother Jehan is dosing him with a potion to keep him asleep. Give the wound a chance to start mending.”

Bascot digested the news and took the bundle from Ernulf. “I’m glad the nuns were so swift with the clothing,” he said. “Since it seems that Father Anselm will not be able to communicate with anyone just yet, I shall visit some of the drapers today and see if they can identify the cloth.”

“Even if they do, it might have travelled far and wide before it was made into the clothes those two were wearing,” Ernulf opined.

“I know, but it’s a logical place to start.” Bascot looked at the serjeant with a raised eyebrow. “What was the ruckus between the de Kyme’s?”

Ernulf shrugged, his seamed face set into disgruntled lines. “De Kyme woke with a head mazed with wine. Decided to ease the ache by blaming his wife for some imagined thing or other. Conal said some hard words about the treatment of his mother-quite right, too, by my way of thinking, the lady is ill-used by her husband most of the time-and de Kyme turned on him, like he usually does. Told the lad he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a knight, and said he wished that both he and his mother had never come into his sight. Said he had the hammer to make more sons, but Sybil’s anvil could produce only the like of Conal or nothing at all and he was going to set the matter straight. The boy took offence-as who wouldn’t?-and it was only by young Richard and Sir Gerard intervening that there wasn’t more than hard words said. From the way de Kyme spoke,” Ernulf added musingly, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sent off to the archbishop for licence to have his marriage dissolved. He and Conal’s mother are cousins of a sort, even if distant. Could be grounds for consanguinity.”

The serjeant rubbed his face with a distracted hand as he finished speaking. “Well, nothing to do with us and these murders, is it? Lady Nicolaa said as I was under your orders until the matter got sorted out. Do you want me to accompany you today, or have you another errand? I could take a walk down to Butwerk; ask among the prostitutes about the dead girl, if you like. Might help if I had her clothing, though. Someone might recognise it.”

Bascot considered a moment. “Let’s go together, Ernulf. The drapers might be more content to answer my questions once they have assured themselves there are profits in the offing.”

“And the harlots will be less busy this morning than tonight,” Ernulf agreed with a grin. “But it’s a fair piece for you to walk with that ankle, what with the crowds and all. If we get mounts, we can ride outside the walls down to the lower town. Be easier on all of us.”

Bascot agreed and they walked towards the stables. Just before they reached the open gates, a large black stallion shot out, Conal on its back, kicking hard with his spurs. Behind him thundered another mount, a heavy bay ridden by Richard Camville, who was calling to his friend to slow his pace. Conal paid no attention, but galloped headlong across the bailey, scattering the goose girl’s flock once more, and rode through the west gate, across the drawbridge and out into the open countryside, Richard behind him. They left a cloud of dust and goose feathers in their wake.

“Let’s hope there’s not more blood spilled before sunset,” Ernulf said sadly. “Lady Nicolaa’s trencher is already as full as it needs to be without de Kyme and the results of his bad temper adding to it.”

“At least if there’s murder done amongst the de Kymes we won’t have to look far for the culprit,” said Bascot, not realising, as he spoke, that he would soon have cause to remember the careless words.

Once mounted they left by the same gate as the two young men but at a more sedate pace. Dust whirls still lingered along the track that Conal and Richard had taken. Bascot, with Gianni riding pillion and the serjeant’s mount behind, descended the hill, hard under the lee of the castle wall to start with, then beside the stone boundaries of the city as they descended still farther, finally reaching the lower part of Lincoln town and the banks of the River Witham.

Along the riverside a path led, beside which barges laden with goods lifted gently in the tide, and fishing boats and small coracles were moored. The water in this part of the river had been turned a muddy brownish grey colour by the effluence discharged from the vats of the dyers, most of whom had premises in nearby Walkergate. A few mangy curs patrolled the docks, snarling at each other and engaging in the occasional fight. The air was filled with the furious shrieks of scavenging birds as they swooped to pick up a dead fish or eel, vying for their prey with the rats that scurried under the wharves, black eyes and sleek fur flashing as they darted out of reach of the birds’ sharp beaks.

The path along the bank led to High Bridge and the trio turned and entered the lower town through Briggate, horses at a slow walk, and made their way past Saltergate and Baxtergate towards Stonebow, the principal gate into the city. Once through its impressive arch, they bore east until they came to Butwerk, a poor suburb of Lincoln situated across the expanse of the Werkdyke, a huge ditch into which most of the filth from the surrounding area was thrown. Here, in Butwerk, were the stewes where the harlots of Lincoln lived and offered their charms for sale.

Ernulf led the way to Whore’s Alley, the main street of the district. The buildings, like those in most of Lincoln, were of three stories, but these were more cheaply built and the top floors sloped inwards towards each other across the street, so close in some places that they seemed in imminent danger of collapse. Most of the casement shutters were closed, even though the day was well advanced, and the walls of the buildings were shabby, cracked in places and buttressed by timber that was warped and split. Except for a couple of bedraggled cats, there was no sign of life, just a sour smell from the rubbish overflowing the open drain that ran down the middle of the street.

“Who holds the fee for these properties?” Bascot asked Ernulf. “I have not seen any of Butwerk listed among the Haye lands.”

“There were a couple in the days of Sir Richard,” Ernulf answered, “but when her father died, Lady Nicolaa got rid of them.” The serjeant smiled. “He was a rare lecher, Sir Richard, although he didn’t have need to come to such whores as live here. But Lady Nicolaa didn’t want to have rents earned by prostitutes in her coffers, so she sold off all the properties here when she came into her inheritance.”

He looked up the street to where it ended in a wall that had been built to contain the area. “Most of the houses belong to whatever stewe-keeper lives in ’em. Bought with money loaned by the Jews, of course. Usual arrangement, you know, the Jews loan the money for the purchase, then whoever has borrowed it pays it back, plus interest. Most of ’em manage to keep going and make a profit. The Jews are happy to have the property as surety for their silver and are satisfied if they only get the interest each year. But if trade slacks off and a stewe-holder can’t pay the interest then he has to sell and pay the Jew his money. Not too many have to do that, though. Whoring can be profitable if the girls are toothsome.”

As he finished speaking, they turned into Whore’s Alley and Ernulf stopped his mount at the first door. He and Bascot slid down from their saddles and gave the reins of the horses to Gianni to hold. The serjeant banged on the wood in front of him, saying as he did so, “Probably all still asleep. I expect trade will be brisk tonight and they’ll need to have taken some rest. There’ll be customers aplenty once the daylight is gone.”

His knocking finally brought a response. The door in front of them was pulled open, but just a cautious crack. Behind it was a shabbily attired individual with a face that closely resembled a ferret. His dark dirty hair fell down cheeks shadowed with week-old stubble, and his few remaining teeth were black with rot. Eyes sliding nervously from Ernulf to the Templar and back again, he asked, with a feeble attempt at heartiness, “What are you doing here, serjeant? Come to sample one of my beauties, have you?”

“Not likely, Verlain. I don’t need a dose of the pox at my age.”

“My wenches are all clean,” the stewe-keeper protested. “You know they are. The bailiff inspects them every week, just as he’s supposed to. I keeps the king’s ordinances, I do. And the town’s as well. No victuals or ale on the premises, no woman kept against her will, and I don’t charge any of the girls’ more than four pence for her room. If that’s why you’re here, then…”

Ernulf stopped the man, whose voice had dropped into a whine. “If you’re such a saint, Verlain, how is it the city bailiff tells me he has to fine you regularly for breaking the very ordinances you’ve just told me you keep?”

“Only once or twice, serjeant, only once or twice, when bad times was on me and I had need to pay my money to the Jew. I wouldn’t have broken the injunctions otherwise, I swear.” The stewe-keeper’s voice now had a grovelling tinge. “If you’ve come to check up on me, you must know that with the fair on…”

Again Ernulf stopped him. “That you’ve got more wenches in your house than you’re supposed to have and that I might just find a pot or two of ale about the place. Well, if you have and if I do, then I might just let the bailiff know about it. Unless, of course, you answer my questions, and any Sir Bascot has to ask you.”

Bowing, and unctuously assuring them of his willingness to comply with any wishes they might have, the stewe-keeper let his visitors into the premises, and they walked across an entryway lit only by the light of a guttering rush lamp and into a large room. Pushed against the walls were a number of stools and, in the farthest corner, stood a plain wooden table with a scarred and stained surface. On it were some empty tumblers and an unstoppered jack of ale.

Ernulf raised an eyebrow as he looked at the forbidden liquor and Verlain hastily assured him it was only for his own and the harlots’ consumption. The serjeant nodded, then said, “Your women, all asleep, are they?”

“Upstairs, resting,” the stewe-keeper confirmed.

“Well, wake ’em up and tell ’em to get down here. We want to ask if they know of any doxy from round here that’s disappeared in the last couple of days, and to look at some clothes and see if they recognise them.”

“Is this about that whore found murdered in the alehouse, serjeant?” Verlain asked. “It weren’t no girl of mine, that I promise you. I don’t have to wake ’em up for you to ask ’em. I can vouch for their answer.”

“Can you?” Ernulf said sarcastically. “Well, unless I hear their answers myself-and without you prompting their replies-I might think as how you know more about that murder than you’re telling. And if I think that, then I might consider that maybe I should drag you by the heels and hand you over to one of Sheriff Camville’s men and let him ask the questions.”

No more threat was needed. The stewe-keeper almost ran from the room in his haste to acquiesce with Ernulf’s request. Within moments half a dozen sleepy-eyed harlots were standing in the room before them. They were in varying stages of undress, ranging in age from young to old. Some had a jaded prettiness, but most looked haggard and, without exception, wore an expression of irritation at being disturbed from their rest. Once the bawds heard the reason for which they had been summoned, however, they all willingly examined the clothing and listened carefully to Ernulf’s description of the girl who had worn it. But even so, none could remember any girl of their acquaintance that was missing nor, they claimed, had they ever before seen the clothes held out for their inspection. Bascot did not interrupt Ernulf as the serjeant spoke to them, merely watched the women’s reactions closely. As far as he could tell, none of them seemed to be lying and when Ernulf looked at him to see if he wished to ask anything further, Bascot shook his head.

As they left the stewe, the keeper’s voice rasped grat-ingly in their ears as he wished them good fortune with their quest and, with obvious relief, shut the door behind them.