Maureen Ash: Death of a Squire

The agister, Copley, was a short stout man, with a florid face and breath reeking of the stale fumes of last night’s wine. He was dressed more richly than the other two, with a thick cloak wrapped over the good wool of his tunic and a flat cap decorated with silver thread set atop his sparse hair. His mood was disgruntled and he was obviously annoyed at being asked to rise so early in the morning, but showed his discontent only in his manner towards Tostig and Eadric. To Bascot he was carefully deferential, mindful perhaps of de Marins’s rank and the small Templar badge worn on the shoulder of his tunic.

Eadric, a young fresh-faced man of unmistakable Saxon heritage with pale hair and deep blue eyes, looked uncomfortable, and kept to the rear of the company as they travelled the short distance to the village. Bascot was aware of the complex hierarchy of forest officials, both royal and private, and of the jostling for power that occurred within its ranks. A chase-or forest, as it was often called-brought in a good amount of revenue to those who owned the rights, be they king or noble. Such areas were jealously guarded against offences by those who oversaw its management. It was likely the young woodward was fearful of reprisal from Copley if he was found to have been lax in his duties. Or, since its officials were notably disliked by the general populace for their arbitrary enforcement of the rights they protected, perhaps he was just reluctant to be included in the enquiry Bascot intended to make of the villagers.

The village was, as Tostig had said, a small one, with perhaps ten families within the fence of hurdles that bounded the compound. The reeve, headman for the village, had been apprised by the forester of Bascot’s intended visit and he, along with the village priest and two others, was waiting for the Templar just inside the gate. Nearby, clustered in a silent watching group, were the other men of the hamlet, while their womenfolk huddled in twos and threes at the entrances to the small thatched cots that straggled around the perimeter of the enclosed space. Children played at the edge of a shallow pond amongst a scattering of geese, chickens and ducks. At the far end of the dirt track that bisected the compound were some storage buildings constructed of rough-hewn timber. Beyond them, over the wall of hurdles, the village fields stretched to the north, empty of grain since harvest time.

The priest, an elderly man with a completely bald head and few teeth, stepped forward as Bascot and the forest officials came through the gate.

“Greetings, Sir Bascot. I am Samson, God’s shepherd to this small flock.” His lined, gentle face attempted a smile as he turned and gestured to the man beside him. “This is Alwin, the reeve, and these others”-the priest’s hand waved at the reeve’s companions-“are Leofric, Alwin’s son, and Edward, his nephew.”

The three villagers looked balefully at Bascot, their manner subservient but wary. Plainly they regarded the presence of Bascot and the forest officials as an intrusion and were resentful.

Copley spoke up, his tone impatient. “Sir Bascot is not interested in the names of the reeve or his kinfolk, priest. He just wants some truthful answers to his questions. Let us get on with it.”

The reeve gave Copley a sullen glare as he spoke and the priest, flustered by the sharpness in the agister’s voice, made haste to invite them into a small half-timbered edifice that served as a church. The reeve and his two kinsmen followed behind.

“I have no wine to offer, good sirs,” Samson said, “but there is ale, if you wish…?”

“Better than nothing. Bring us some,” Copley ordered before sitting down heavily on a stool placed just beside the door. The only other furniture in the one small room they had entered was a tiny altar at the far end and a wooden box used to house the priest’s vestments and vessels for the celebration of Mass. On the limewashed walls crude pictures of biblical scenes had been painted, mainly from stories the villagers would most easily understand, those of shepherds tending their flocks and Jesus feeding the multitude from a basket containing only five loaves and two fishes.

As the priest turned to hurry away for the ale, Bascot stopped him. “No, thank you, Father, we do not require any of your ale. Our visit is to be but a brief one. It will not require that you deplete your small store for our benefit.”

The Templar turned angrily to the agister, who was looking at him with stupefaction. “You will stay on your feet, Copley, out of respect for the good Father’s office and his age. If any here should be accorded the comfort of sitting, it is he, not you, who should receive it.”

Disregarding the look of outrage that settled on Copley’s face, Bascot spoke to the villagers, who were now regarding him with a little less hostility and barely concealed glee at the reprimand he had given the agister. Behind them Tostig was grinning, while Eadric ducked his head to hide a smile. Gianni, who had not come in after them, stood in the open doorway, fondling one of the village dogs. The animal had declawed toes, a hobbling demanded by law to prevent any dog not belonging to a lord or forest official from hunting animals that were the sole province of the king.

Bascot addressed the reeve. “Alwin, you will know that I am here to try and discover how the squire Hubert de Tournay came to be found murdered nearby in the forest. Did any of you see him on the day he was killed?”

“No, lord,” Alwin answered. “Neither did we know of his death until Sir Gerard came yesterday and told us.”

“Did anyone of his age and rank ever come to the village-apart from those in the company of the sheriff?”

Again the reeve shook his head. “Only the bailiff ever comes here. And he is a man of an age with my own years.”

“The boy must have come to where he was killed late in the evening of the day before or perhaps during that same night. Did you hear anything-voices or horses-out in the woods at that time?”

Again the stubborn shake of denial. Then the priest spoke up. “There are always some sounds in the forest after darkness has fallen, Sir Bascot. Once daylight has gone many creatures-foxes, owls and the like-come out to seek their prey. Unless a great disturbance was made, any slight noise would be thought just the sounds of their foraging.”

Bascot sighed and stood up. “If anyone remembers anything, Father, I would be pleased if you would let me know. Tostig will get a message to me.”

They all went back outside and Bascot looked around for Gianni, who had disappeared, along with the dog, from the doorway of the church. The villagers were still clustered about in clumps of two or three, watching silently as their priest led the visitors back in the direction of the gate. Suddenly there was the crash of splintering wood and the bellow of an animal; then a girl came running from one of the buildings near the pond. She was young and buxom, her fair hair streaming down her back like a ribbon of amber and, as she ran, she sobbed, stuffing her fist in her mouth to stifle the sound. She came straight towards Bascot and, when she reached him, threw herself down on the ground at his feet.

“It’s my fault, lord. My fault that the squire is dead. I said…I said I would meet him, but I didn’t go. He must have been waiting for me and…and got himself murdered by poachers or some other outlaws.” She hung her head down, pushing her hands into the muddy earth at her knees. “It’s all my fault,” she said again.

Alwin went over to the girl and wrenched her roughly to her feet. “Slut,” he mouthed at her. “You’ll get us all in trouble with your wanton fancies. I told you to stay hidden and keep your lips sealed.”

“I couldn’t, Uncle.” She turned and pointed in the direction of the shed, from which could still be heard an agitated lowing, multiplied now by the din of all the village dogs barking in chorus. From the shed strode Gianni, a grin on his face and a sharp pointed stick in his hand.