And, if he was correct, and the murderer appeared and succeeded in his attempt on Bascot’s life, what would happen to Gianni? Hilde had assured him she would care for the boy and Bascot knew she would keep strictly to her promise, but how would the boy react? Would he go on as he had been, growing up strong and straight, happy in his studies? Or would he run away and revert to the urchin he had been when Bascot had found him, trusting no one, scrabbling with the rats for food?
Silently he repeated a paternoster and prayed to God for guidance and help.
In the keep, all of the revellers and servants were asleep. Except for one. A shadowy form rose from the dark confines of a chamber and stepped lightly and quietly through the snores and slumber-deep breathing of the other occupants of the chamber. The door creaked slightly when it was opened but, thanks be to God, no one was sleeping across the threshold.
Outside, in the hallway, by the light of a guttering torch, a knife was pulled from its sheath, checked for sharpness and replaced. Then its owner crept down the stairs and out of the building.
Overhead moon and stars twinkled in a heaven devoid of cloud. It should be a fine day tomorrow and would have been an even better one had it not been for Hilde’s carelessly imparted tidbit of information. Damn the Templar! Tonight’s excursion would not be necessary were it not for his incessant poking and prying into matters that were none of his concern. Ah, well, he would not be a threat much longer. Soon he would join the others, join them in paradise-or hell.
The candle was burning low in its holder when Bascot heard the first sound. A tiny scrape as the door to the chapel was eased open, quickly stilled as the intruder must have paused to see if the sound had been detected. Bascot tensed his muscles, straining his ears and forcing himself to lie still as he heard the soft brush of one footstep, then another, then a pause. The intruder seemed to be still some feet away from him. Was it the person they sought, or merely one of the castle guests, sleepless and come to seek the solace of prayer in the hours before dawn?
Seconds passed like hours, then the footsteps again began their slow approach. If it had been a guest, they would have retreated at the sight of Bascot on the chapel floor in apparent communion with God. This was the one they had been waiting for, the person who had wantonly killed six people and would, without compunction, kill again. Bascot felt the muscles in his back twitch in protest at their vulnerability. He knew he must wait, wait until an attack was made, else the murderer would deny any intent of violence, claiming only an accidental intrusion into the chapel precincts. Wait, Bascot said to himself, wait. Ah, God, it was hard to do. He held his breath, heard the footsteps move again, bolder now, and quicker as they came nearer. He heard the swish of a blade being drawn from a scabbard, felt, as though it were his own, the sudden intake of breath as his attacker steeled himself to strike…
Bascot judged the last second of safety, hoped it was enough, and rolled, pushing out with his good leg to give himself purchase on the stone of the floor, presenting his blind side to the blade that swept down in an arc above his head. He threw up an arm to protect himself, drawing the blade from his belt at the same time. From the direction of the sacristy, he could hear d’Arderon and the priest burst through the door, their shouts of warning, the ring of their mail-shod feet on stone. Steeling himself for the slice of the blade, he turned his sighted side towards his attacker and readied his own knife to thrust, just as the preceptor’s fist crashed into the jaw of the person above him.
“By God,” he heard d’Arderon shout in disbelief. “It is not a man. It is a woman.”
Bascot pulled himself to his feet and bent over the figure that lay unconscious on the floor, the hand the knife had held thrown out to one side, the sharp wicked blade glittering in the candlelight a few feet away. Silently he pulled back the hood that covered the face of his assailant to reveal a mass of dark russet-coloured hair.
“I thought you said it was the secretarius, William Scothern, that you suspected?” d’Arderon demanded.
“It was,” Bascot replied.
“Then who is this?” the preceptor asked.
“It is his sister,” Bascot answered. “Isobel.”
Twenty-six
“So that little lass murdered them all,”Ernulf said, disbelief on his weathered countenance. “Seems hard to credit.”
He and Bascot were standing outside the door of the holding cell, where Isobel had been taken after she had been revived. Dawn was near to breaking and the castle servants were beginning to stir. From the direction of the poultry sheds a rooster let out a call warning of the imminence of daylight.
“That little lass, as you call her, serjeant, killed six people. After stealing the key to the chest where her brother kept de Kyme’s private correspondence, and discovering that Sir Philip was sending for his illegitimate son, she calmly wrote and instructed Hugo and his wife to come to Newark, where she told them they would be met. She then hired Wat, and his boat, and had him ferry the couple up the river just past Torksey. It was her that went to meet the alekeeper there, and gave the boy and his wife a draught of ale with a potion in it that would render them unconscious. She then smothered them with a piece of sacking.”
“That was where she met the Jew? On the Torksey road?” Ernulf asked.
“Yes. It was Samuel’s misfortune that he had stopped there, perhaps to take a break in his journey before going on to Alan de Kyme’s. He must have seen her making her way to the river. Since she could not let her presence be noted, she persuaded him she needed assistance and took him to the river and onto the barge with Hugo and his wife. Samuel was given the same adulterated ale as the others and suffered the same fate.”
“You said she claims her brother had nothing to do with the business. How did she explain her absence that day to him? If I remember aright, it was originally claimed that she and him had kept company together at the fair. That was why she wasn’t there to give Lady Sybil a witness to being sick in bed all day.”
“She told Scothern she was going to Parchmingate, to see a new Psalter at one of the parchment makers, and would meet him later. Scothern was not averse to leaving her to her own company. It seems he has been visiting the pretty young widow of a cloth merchant, and used the time to spend with her.”
“And Brunner?”
“Isobel tracked him down much as we did. Remember, she was in the castle. She not only had the advantage of knowing what we were going to do, and when, by observing our movements, she also could glean information from her brother. She was clever, and careful. It is only by God’s grace she did not get away with it.”
“It is hard to believe she killed the priest. That takes an evil heart.” Ernulf said the words with distaste. “It’s like that verse in the Bible, about what is an abomination to our Lord.”
“ ‘A proud look, a lying tongue and hands that will shed innocent blood.’ ”
“Aye, that’s the one. Well, she had all of those, I reckon.”
Bascot thought of the serene look of hatred that Isobel had given him when she had come to her senses on the floor of St. Clement’s nave. There had been no sign of remorse in her eyes, nor a trace of guilt. She had calmly risen, rubbed the bruise that was swelling on her chin and said, “Well, Templar, you have found me out. I hope you burn in hell.”
In the holding cell he and d’Arderon had questioned her. She had told them all she had done, hiding nothing. She had found herself pregnant, she had said, and not wanting her child to be born a bastard had decided that she would gull Philip de Kyme into thinking the child was his and then would persuade him to marry her.