“If I did that, William,” the sheriff said to his brother, “it would seem I had need to find a scapegoat, one that was conveniently dead.”
“There is another side to that argument,” William declared. “It might be said that one of these men was paid by you to kill the boy and, by hanging him so summarily, you sought to guarantee his silence.”
Gerard turned and glowered at his brother. “Whatever is said will be said. I am tired of plots and manoeuvres to gain royal favour, or to dispel distrust. I am sheriff. These men are outlaws. It is my duty to hang them, and hang them I will.”
William knew better than to push his brother further. He stood silently by as, one after another, the brigands had a noose placed around their necks and were thrown over the castle wall.
As the church bells rang out the hour of Tierce, Melisande Fleming was giving her daughter a thrashing. The girl whimpered as the thin rod struck her back and buttocks, but she did not cry out.
“You will tell me why you were at the castle yesterday. And you will tell me who you went there to meet.”
Still the girl remained silent and Melisande signalled to the two female servants holding her daughter to stretch her out farther. Again the rod fell, this time catching her shoulder and biting through the thin material of the only garment she wore, a shift of fine linen.
“Joanna,” her mother said, her bosom heaving from her efforts, “I will beat you senseless if I have to, you know that. Tell me his name.”
The girl lifted her head from where it had drooped between her shoulders. “Then beat me senseless you will have to, Mother. Or kill me, I care not. For I will not tell you.”
Just a little before Sext, under a lowering sky, Bascot and Gianni were approaching the village where Edward’s uncle was reeve. The gateward, a small skinny youngster with a pimple-scarred face, gave them admittance. Inside the enclave all was still, and the sound of women sobbing could be clearly heard. No one came to greet the Templar and Bascot sent a boy who was tending a flock of geese to fetch Father Samson. When the old man came up the path from the church his steps were slow, and his face wet with tears.
“Greetings, Sir Bascot,” he said unsteadily. “You must excuse myself and the villagers if we seem discourteous today. We have been told of Edward and his involvement with the outlaws, and that he is being punished for his crimes at this very hour. His family is sorely grieved. None of us had any knowledge that he was party to such deviltry.”
“You may not have been privy to it, Father, but his family surely was.”
The old man lifted his rheumy eyes to Bascot. “Oh no, my lord. They were not. Of that I am certain.”
Bascot got down from his horse and went up to the elderly priest. “Father, your duty to God binds you to see the good in men. Yet where there is good, there can also be evil. Believe me when I say that Edward was not the only man of this village to consort with the outlaws, even if the others did so unwillingly. I will have the truth from them, and if I do not, I will let the sheriff extract it by force.”
Samson’s mouth fell open at Bascot’s words, then he clamped it shut along with his eyes and mumbled a prayer under his breath, fingering the plain wooden cross that hung from a leather thong around his neck. “May God forgive them if you speak true, Sir Bascot. And me also, for I have failed in my duty as shepherd of this small flock.”
“Bring all the men into the church, Father, and the milkmaid, Bettina,” Bascot said kindly to the distressed priest. “And there you and I will together hope that your errant parishioners will finally give truthful answers to my questions.”
Twenty-seven
Late that night, Ernulf, Roget and Bascot were sitting in Ernulf’s quarters in the barracks, sharing a jug of wine and the warmth of a glowing brazier. At intervals, as they replenished their cups, Ernulf took a short poker from where it rested amidst the red-hot embers of the brazier and plunged its tip into the wine. The sizzling sound and smell enhanced the taste.
Outside it was cold, with an icy rain falling that was mixed with snow. In a corner Gianni sat, alongside another, smaller, brazier, wrapped in an old blanket and with Ernulf’s cap pulled firmly down around his ears. He was dozing lightly.
Bascot regarded him with affection and felt a renewal of the relief he had felt when he had hauled the boy up onto his horse in the middle of the river. He was now reluctant to let the lad out of his sight, even if it was only to a pallet outside Ernulf’s chamber in the larger common room of the barracks.
“So, mon ami,” Roget said, the brass rings that were threaded through his beard throwing off sparks of light as the movement of his lips set them dancing, “are you going to tell us what you have discovered?”
“It was what Gianni discovered, really, Roget,” Bascot replied. “If he had come to me about what he had overheard in the hall instead of trying to play the hero himself, we would have been spared our trudge through the forest to rescue him.”
“True,” the former mercenary replied, “but then we would not have captured all those brigands, my friend. That alone made the effort worthwhile. Although,” he added, with a glance towards the sleeping figure of Gianni, “I would as lief the boy had not been put into such danger.”
“Nor I,” Ernulf agreed, refilling his cup, then raising it to the captain. “This is a good vintage, Roget,” he said. “I thank you for it.”
“Ha! Enjoy it well. That is the last jug from my store. I do not know how soon I can get more.” The captain made a mock expression of such ruefulness that Bascot burst out laughing.
“He was tumbling a wine merchant’s daughter,” Ernulf explained to the Templar. “The father gave him a dozen jugs of this”-he raised the cup high-“for a promise to leave the girl alone.”
“I was tiring of her in any case,” Roget commented, shaking his head. “I never like to spend too long with one woman. They get ideas that are dangerous.”
Ernulf leaned towards Bascot. “But tell us, what was it Gianni overheard, and what did you find out in the village?”
Both the sergeant and Roget listened silently as Bascot told them his tale. Then Ernulf refilled all their wine cups and said, “So you have discovered who murdered Hubert and the charcoal burner and his sons.”
“Yes,” Bascot agreed. “But I cannot prove it.”
“ Ma foi, does it matter?” Roget asked. “The sheriff will not care for such a nicety.”
Bascot shook his head, but it was Ernulf who answered Roget’s question. “The sheriff may not, but the king will.”
“The king?” Roget protested. “Why should it worry him? The boy was of no importance, not to King John anyway, and I do not think that our new monarch will care overmuch about the fate of Chard and his family.”
“You are right, Roget,” Bascot replied, “but he will care about the rumour of treason. Proof of the motive for Hubert’s murder, and of who committed it, must be given to him.”
“Have you thought of a way to get such proof?” Ernulf asked.
“I think so,” Bascot said. “I have discussed the matter with Lady Nicolaa, who has, by the way, discovered another, and separate, transgression against the king’s justice. We have devised a plan, which, if it succeeds, will bring all these matters to light in front of witnesses and thus resolve them. She has instructed me to explain your part in the ruse we propose to play.”
Roget chuckled deep in his beard and Ernulf grinned. “Just tell us what it is that we are to do, de Marins,” the serjeant said. “We both have much relish to hear of it.”
It was early the next morning that Melisande Fleming received a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to attend a meeting at the sheriff’s hunting lodge for a discussion of the preparations necessary for a hunt planned for the king during his stay in Lincoln. Melisande was in her gold manufactory when the messenger arrived. The workshop was housed in a building adjacent to her house on Mikelgate, and she always enjoyed being in its confines. The sight of the master goldsmith at work on his small anvil, his tiny hammer and tongs stretching and tapping the gleaming yellow metal, always soothed her, and she often herself performed the task of polishing a finished piece with the fine soft fur of a rabbit’s foot.