Anselm had been the first to be told of the bodies in the alehouse, by Agnes, the alewife. The day had passed, during which he and Gianni had discovered that the bodies of the four dead had been brought there in the casks that were used to transport the ale. The priest had been alone and unharmed before Vespers, when Bascot had gone to the church and asked where Agnes could be found. Then, but a short while later, he had been stabbed, and Bascot had gone back to the church where he had met Roget and the alewife had told a little more of the truth she had been withholding. He had felt extremely angry, Bascot remembered, at having to order the screeching woman dragged back to the church in the rain.
The rain. Ermingard had said the cloak she had seen was wet. Whoever had attacked Anselm would have been caught in the downpour as he left the church. And the elderly knight he had sat with at table had advised Bascot to look for a woman. Could the offhand remark be right?
Ermingard had said the woman of whom she spoke was with child. Perhaps he should be looking for a pregnant woman. If Anselm was a lecher, had he made one of his flock pregnant? Then been killed by an irate male relative of the girl? But, if that were so, what connection would there be with the other murders? It was only his own instincts that made him think there was such a connection. And between Anselm and Brunner? The dead girl in the alehouse had been pregnant. Perhaps if she hadn’t been there would not have been such haste to kill her. But once she was dead, and the baby with her, then why the urgency for the bodies to be found?
The view of Lincoln faded from Bascot’s awareness as a new thought formed. Perhaps the haste had been not to kill Hugo’s pregnant wife before their baby was born, but to have them dead before it was time for another woman to be brought to her birthing. He had been looking for the murderer amongst those who would benefit by becoming de Kyme’s heir, but what if that heir had yet to be born?
His thoughts chased up and down like Gianni’s hand in the stone game. That day in the solar, when Ermingard had become distressed-where had she been looking when she had become so insistent about the wrong colour? It had been suggested that it was the tapestry about which she had been rambling, but perhaps it had not been the bright colour of red depicted in the embroidered picture. Perhaps the person she would not, or could not, name had been present. Who had been there? Bascot thrust his mind back to that morning-his own embarrassment, the air of tension. Following that line of reasoning, the motive for the murders took on a different slant, and he juggled the people that he and Hilde had suspected with others hitherto dismissed as of no importance. The shadow cast by the sun on the stone of the parapet had moved a good measure before he suddenly threw up his head and took a deep breath of air. He had found the connection he had been looking for.
Twenty-five
Hilde listened intently as Bascot explained who he believed had committed the murders and his reasons for thinking so. When he had finished, she nodded. “Yes, Templar. It all fits. Like a rotten plum hidden deep in a basket, hard to find until one tastes it and knows it to be rank.”
They were sitting in Hilde’s chamber, alone. Gianni had been left in Bascot’s room and admonished to keep practising his letters while Hilde’s servant, Freyda, had been sent to keep watch outside the door while her mistress and Bascot talked together. The old lady had herself poured the wine they were drinking from a pair of small cups decorated with silver gilt.
“Will you go to the sheriff with your findings?” Hilde asked.
“I cannot, not yet,” Bascot replied. “First I must have proof. Even if Camville agrees with me, he must have some evidence to lay a charge.”
Hilde held out her cup for Bascot to refill. “Such proof will be hard to find,” she said.
“Unless we devise some,” Bascot answered quietly.
Hilde’s bright blue eyes regarded him. “You have thought of a means of doing that?” she asked disbelievingly.
“If my instinct is true and the stabbing of Father Anselm is connected to the other murders-for something he may have unwittingly seen or heard that constituted a threat-then I think I have. But I shall need your help to make it convincing, if you are willing.”
“You shall have every assistance I can give you, Templar,” Hilde assured him. She leaned forward. “Now, tell me what it is that I must do.”
The great hall was crowded that night, full almost beyond capacity, just as it had been on the eve of the fair. All those who had been deemed to have any connection with the murders were present, even Philip de Kyme, who had been persuaded to join the company by Gerard Camville with the promise that his wife and stepson would be seated well away from him and warned not to approach the baron under any circumstances. Outside there had been a light shower of rain, not sufficient to threaten the tourney that was to take place on the morrow, but heavy enough to lessen the heat that had gathered by the end of the day. Once the meal was over, the trestle tables were cleared from the middle of the huge room and minstrels were summoned to play while members of the company danced or just listened to the music. Nicolaa and her husband presided over the company, making a point of moving about amongst their guests and engaging most of them in conversation.
Hilde was there also, leaning heavily on the arm of her great-nephew, Conal, as she walked about the room. Finally she asked him to seat her with a group of guests still sitting at a small side table, lingering over their wine in a desultory fashion. Hilde was unusually affable, leaning across to ask a question of one or the other of her companions, or to pay a compliment.
She sat for some little time in this manner, before leaning back and, under cover of the flow of conversation and the strains of the music, said in a low voice to the person who sat beside her, “I have much cause to rejoice this night. Conal and his mother have been proved innocent, and the identity of the true murderer discovered.”
Furrows appeared between the brows of her companion, but Hilde made it appear that she had not noticed and blithely continued speaking. “It seems that the Templar was with Father Anselm just before he died, and the priest told him who it was that had stabbed him. De Marins believes that it was the same person that killed de Kyme’s son and his wife, and says he has proof to support it. He told me privately that the innocence of my relatives is now not in question, although he would add nothing further. Of course, the Templar is a monk and must consider whether he can reveal what Anselm told him in such extreme conditions, but since he is not a priest he is not bound by the oath of the confessional. I am confident that by morning he will tell what he knows to Sheriff Camville and the murderer will be arrested.”
Hilde paused to let her gaze roam over the company before adding, with a smile of satisfaction, “Yes, even now, de Marins is preparing to spend the night in a solitary vigil before the altar of St. Clement’s. God will guide him aright, I am sure of it. By this time tomorrow, Conal and Sybil will be free of the charge against them.”
Just before midnight, Bascot put on the Templar surcoat he had not worn since he had come to Lincoln. The red cross emblazoned on the pristine white cloth of the coat settled comfortably over his heart. He had not donned a shirt of mail underneath, fearing it might warn the murderer he was expecting to be attacked and had, instead, chosen to wear a well-padded gambeson under his dark-sleeved tunic. With any luck it would provide as much, or more, protection as the hair shirt Father Anselm had worn. Finally he smoothed his fingers through his hair and beard, adjusted his eye patch and left the room. The only weapon he carried was the short-bladed knife at his belt.
The sounds of revelry from the hall could be heard as he crossed the bail. The outbuildings were all but deserted, the servants of the castle either in attendance on the guests in the keep or asleep in their beds. Shortly before midnight Bascot let himself through the postern gate in the north wall and walked along the cobbled path that led to the small church of St. Clement. Near the entrance he could see two shadowy figures waiting for him. D’Arderon and a Templar priest.