MAureen Ash - A Deadly Penance

The Templar nodded. “Yes, with Lady Nicolaa’s consent, I would like Gianni to accompany me into town tomorrow and be present while I interview the other two guild leaders. He has been with me on such ventures before and can make notes of the conversations, as he has done in the past.”

Gianni’s face broke into a grin as Richard, on his mother’s behalf, gave permission for the lad to be absent from the scriptorium. The boy could think of nothing finer than to be in his former master’s company as they once again attempted to track down a secret murderer. From his answering smile, Gianni knew the Templar felt the same.

The next morning, after the service at Terce, Bascot rode out of the commandery and across the Minster in the direction of the castle. Stalls selling heated wine and roasted chestnuts had already been set up in the area around the cathedral and the aroma of hot meat pies wafted in the air as roving vendors hawked their wares among the small crowd that had attended the morning service. Even though the temperature was slightly warmer, the Templar was well wrapped up in his cloak and wore a black quilted arming cap on his head for protection against the chill. As he passed out of the Minster grounds and crossed Ermine Street, there was already foot traffic and wagons on the main thoroughfare, all making their way towards Northgate, Lincoln’s northernmost exit, and the one that led out into the open countryside.

When Bascot reached the castle gate, he saw Gianni waiting for him just inside the entrance, eyes alight with excitement. On his head the boy had a fur-lined cap that had been given to him by Ernulf a couple of winters before. The last time he had seen Gianni wearing it, it had been too large, but now it fitted snugly over his curls and, with a heartrending pang, Bascot was once more made aware of how much the boy had grown.

With a lighthearted step, Gianni ran forward and handed a piece of parchment to the Templar. On the paper were written the names of the two townsmen that had yet to be interviewed. One of them was known to Bascot, a barber-surgeon he had met three years before when a priest had been stabbed in St. Andrew’s Church. Bascot had not made the acquaintance of the other, who was, according to the note Gianni had made beside his name, head of the chandler’s guild.

“We shall see these two citizens before we go to the furrier’s shop,” Bascot said as he motioned for Gianni to scramble up and ride pillion behind him. “The barber, if I remember correctly, is an observant man. Mayhap he will recall something that can help us learn more about the victim.”

He felt the boy give two light taps on his shoulder, a signal for “yes.” As they rode out of the castle ward and onto Ermine Street, it was as though time had turned backward and they were as they had once been, master and servant on a quest. It gave both of them a great feeling of satisfaction and, had it not been that it was the occasion of a murder that had caused them to be once again in close company, they would have found great joy in the reunion.

The streets of the town were sparsely populated and those who were out in the cold air were well wrapped in cloaks and hats. The barber, whose name was Gildas, had his business premises on a narrow turning just off Danesgate, near the church where Bascot had first met him. Gildas’ shop was a large establishment employing three assistants and had the sign associated with the trade-a brass cup atop which stood a pole wound about with bandages-outside the door.

When they went inside, the shop was crowded with customers, all sitting on chairs with elongated backs that ended in wooden headrests. Some of the patrons were having their faces shaved or hair trimmed, while one or two were being bled, some by the opening of a vein on the inside of the elbow, others by dry cupping, where a heated circular vessel was applied to the skin and, as it cooled, drew the blood to the surface. Another, attended by Gildas himself, was stripped to the waist and had leeches affixed to his chest. Piles of bandages, jars of leeches, pairs of wicked-looking pliers for drawing teeth and small, sharp knives were neatly stacked on shelves along the walls and the air was heavy with heat from braziers burning in each corner. The strong scent of perfumed oil was overlaid with the metallic tang of blood and the floor was littered with tufts of hair and soiled bandages.

When Bascot entered the shop, Gildas immediately left his customer and came forward to greet him. The master barber was as the Templar remembered him; a rotund little man of short stature with greying hair and a merry smile. Around his neck hung a thin silver chain threaded with extracted teeth.

“Sir Bascot-you are well come, well come indeed.”

Gildas’ customer, noticing he had been deserted, gave a shout of alarm and the barber motioned for one of his assistants to attend to the man before turning back to his visitor.

“I expect you have come about the murder that took place in the castle the night before last,” he said knowingly. “We have,” Bascot confirmed. “You were, I understand, one of those who attended the feast that evening?”

Gildas’ chest swelled with importance. “Yes, as head of our guild, I went there to take the monies I and the other barber-surgeons in the town had collected for donation to Lady Nicolaa’s foundling home.”

“But you did not stay the night?” Bascot asked.

Gildas shook his head. “I had an important client coming early the next morning and had to be in my shop to attend him. My wife did not relish the journey home on so cold a night, but she understands that the needs of my customers must come before personal comfort.”

“The man who was killed was named Aubrey Tercel,” Bascot said, “and was a servant in Lady Petronille’s retinue. Did you know him?”

“I did not know his name, but I believe I know which man was murdered,” the barber pronounced. “Did he have fair hair and wear a dark blue tunic with a red leather belt?”

Surprised, the Templar said that the description fitted the dead man. Gildas gave a self-satisfied smile. “When the news of the murder spread throughout the town yesterday and it was said the victim had been a servant of Lady Nicolaa’s sister, one of our guild members, a barber by the name of Hacher, said that a member of Lady Petronille’s retinue had come to his shop twice in the last few weeks to have his hair trimmed.” Gildas gave Bascot a wide smile. “Now, Sir Bascot, I pride myself on being able to recognise the work of every one of our guild members and, when I arrived at the castle, I immediately noticed the man I have just described passing through the hall. I knew at once that he had been to Hacher to have his hair dressed. I would not have taken note of him otherwise. Hacher’s style of work is unmistakable- cut just below the ears and at the sides and long in the back…”

Bascot had forgotten that Gildas, while observant, was also garrulous and gently cut the barber off in mid-flow. “Then I need to speak to this other barber. Tercel may have said something while in his shop that could be pertinent to the murder investigation. Where can I find him?”

“Just on the other side of Spring Hill, by the church of St. John,” Gildas replied, his round face showing the pleasure he was deriving from being able to help. Bascot had no doubt that, by the end of the barber’s working day, every customer would be regaled with the details he had been able to supply. As he watched one of Gildas’ assistants pick up a pair of vicious-looking pliers and prepare to draw a tooth from a man whose face was contorted with misery, he hoped the story would distract the unfortunate customer from his pain.

Bascot and Gianni found hacher’s shop in a little side street just behind St. John’s church. It was smaller than the one Gildas owned and the barber was the antithesis of the talkative guild master. Tall and skinny, Hacher had a cadaverous face that looked as though it would crack if its owner broke into a smile. There were only two chairs in his shop, one occupied by a man having his luxuriant beard trimmed by an apprentice and the other empty. Hacher was sitting on a stool at the back, surveying his almost-deserted shop with a lugubrious expression. Here, as in Gildas’ premises, the air was filled with pungent aromas but overlying the tang of blood was the strong scent of sage, the same cloying perfume that had emanated from Tercel’s corpse.