Since it would still be some days before they would have an answer from the Templar preceptor, d’Arderon, about Bascot’s enquiries in La Lune, they then pondered on the question of whether Hugo and his female companion were impostors or not and, if they were genuine, who could have been aware of Hugo’s intent to come to England. Even though William Scothern had insisted that he had told no one of the correspondence between the baron and his former lover it was possible, probable even, that Philip had spoken of the matter while deep in his cups.
“Apparently, he was always baiting Conal and Sybil, saying he had the ways and means to free himself from them,” Hilde remarked. “It would not have been surprising if he had revealed the existence of his illegitimate son while drinking with his cronies.”
“I did not find out much else of pertinence,” she went on, her face a mask of disappointment. “I did get the impression that Sybil’s maid, Isobel, is hiding something, but what it is, or its importance, I could not determine. The girl wears her piety like a mask, shielding her thoughts behind her Psalter. She should have been a nun, for all she has the face and body of a temptress. Matilda Bardolf is rumoured to have had lovers, but there is no one named. She is enamoured of Richard Camville, so the gossip mongers opine, but he does not return her fancy. It is also said that she and Isobel do not like each other, but that perhaps is because I have seen the glances of appreciation that Richard gives to Sybil’s maid. Since Nicolaa’s son is appreciative of any woman with a soft cheek and pretty eyes, it seems rather pointless of Matilda to harbour enmity towards just one, but perhaps that is because he is often near Isobel, when he and Conal are in company together.”
She sighed. “It seems I have not been as much use to you as I had thought to be, Templar.”
Bascot assured her of his appreciation of her efforts, reminding her that although he had discovered how the murders were carried out, he, like herself, had come no nearer to uncovering who had caused the deaths. He left the chamber, the socket of his eye still aching, intending to return to the solitude of his own chamber, but coming down the steps of the forebuilding outside the keep, he met Ernulf coming in search of him.
“Anselm is dead,” the serjeant said. “A young brother from the priory came to inform Lady Nicolaa. Breathed his last just before Tierce. The monk said that he never regained consciousness. Just slipped away, easy as you please. God assoil him,” Ernulf added as he crossed himself.
“Amen,” Bascot said, bowing his head for a moment in silent prayer.
“That now makes six murders we’ve had,” Ernulf declared roughly. “The devil’s loose in Lincoln for this fair.”
“Where is Lady Nicolaa?” Bascot asked.
“She’s in the herb garden with her sisters. Said to tell you to attend her there. She’s much concerned at the priest’s death, I can tell you. All this mayhem will not be well received by the king, or Bishop Hugh, come to that, when he returns.” As usual, the serjeant’s thoughts were for the discomforts his mistress would endure; pity for the dead came second to his loyalty to Nicolaa.
Bascot crossed the bail and made for the walled enclosure at the far end. A small gate led inside, where the sweet smell of herbs was strong and pleasant. He found Nicolaa and Petronille sitting on a stone seat in the light of the morning sun. Ermingard was on her knees beside a patch of mint, plucking the leaves and placing them in a small basket standing on the ground nearby. Bascot walked to where Nicolaa sat, the heady aroma of thyme pungent as his feet bruised the profusion of bushy plants that carpeted the enclosure.
Nicolaa returned his words of greeting absently. “This is a bad business, de Marins. We must discover who murdered these people, and the priest. Have you anything new to report?”
“Beyond what I told you of the boat and how I believe that Samuel came to be with Hugo and his wife, no,” Bascot replied. “I am sorry for Anselm. Not only for the loss of his life, but that I had hoped he might be able to tell us who it was that attacked him. I have always felt that his stabbing was somehow connected to the deaths in the alehouse. He was close by. He may have seen something or someone, perhaps without knowing the importance of it, which made him dangerous to the murderer.”
“Well, it is too late for him to tell us of it now,” Petronille said sadly. Her kind face was drawn in sympathetic lines, unlike her sister Nicolaa’s, whose capable countenance was tight with anger.
“The shame of it is that when Anselm was attacked, we took no note of the whereabouts of those we now believe may have been involved,” Bascot said, his voice mirroring the futility evident in Nicolaa’s face. “It was too soon. We did not know that the dead boy would be claimed as Philip de Kyme’s son, or how the boy and the others had come to be in the alehouse. If we had, more attention might have been paid to those who may have had the opportunity to go to the church and attack Father Anselm.”
“There was much activity that night, de Marins,” Nicolaa said. “The town was in a turmoil preparing for the fair, and the alarm of the murders made for more confusion. There were many people in the hall-Philip and Sybil, Conal, Hugh Bardolf and his daughter, even Roger de Kyme, among them. Alan de Kyme was not there, but will most likely claim that, like the night before, he was preparing his stock for sale at the fair. But even of those who were present, it would be almost impossible now to remember if all were in sight all of the time. The church where Anselm was priest is not far away. Any of them could have slipped out for a space and not been missed.”
“It was just before Vespers, was it not, that the priest was stabbed?” Petronille asked. “If we put our minds to it, Nicolaa, perhaps we can remember who was with us then. It will not give us any harm to try.”
Nicolaa leaned back on the warm stone of the seat, closing her eyes for a moment in thought. “Gerard was talking to Richard, I think, and Conal was with them. Roger de Kyme I seem to recall seeing, but at what particular moment, it is hard to place. And shortly afterwards the representatives of the townspeople came with their complaints. And there was the storm, too.”
She and Petronille went through as many of the people they could recall as having been present, but could vouch for the constant presence of none of them. “Besides,” Nicolaa added, “it will be easy enough for any of them to lie if they have something to hide…”
Ermingard’s voice suddenly interrupted them. “ She lied. I know she did because it was the wrong colour.”
The two women and Bascot started at the words. They had all but forgotten the presence of the youngest Haye sister. She had been in a more composed frame of mind for the last two days, and had moved about the keep in company with Petronille in a withdrawn, but unmazed, manner. She looked at them now out of eyes clear of confusion, her words deliberate and coherent.
“What do you mean, Mina?” Petronille asked her. “You were not in the hall that afternoon, you were resting, don’t you remember?”
Petronille spoke to Bascot. “My sister was very upset at the news of the murders. I persuaded her to lie down for awhile to calm her mind.”
Petronille did not add that later that evening Ermingard had been found wandering the corridors in the middle of the night, but it was in all of their minds.
“The cloak,” Ermingard insisted, “she said it was Sybil’s, but it was not. It was the wrong colour. Sybil is all fair and light, like ice. She would never have worn it. A dirty brown colour, the shade of old dried blood.” She shuddered. “And it was wet, I picked it up after she left. The blood stained my hands. Ah, I scrubbed at it, but still it stayed there, on my fingers.”
Ermingard’s voice faltered. Her expression became clouded. Petronille rose quickly and went to her, putting her arm about her. “Don’t talk about it, lovey,” she said soothingly. “It only distresses you.”