Maureen Ash - Death of a Squire

This was the reason he had decided to steal away from the Templar, to try to find out if the gossip he had overheard that morning was the truth. The dairymaid, Bettina, would be able to tell him, or one of the other people in the village. Gianni was sure the priest of the hamlet, Samson, was literate. There had been scraps of parchment and a quill pen on a shelf in the tiny chapel where Bascot had spoken to the villagers. Since Gianni had been taught to read and write by the Templar, he could, through Samson, ask the questions that would prove the validity of the tale he had overheard. If it was true, then he was sure he had discovered a lie that had been told. He remembered when, earlier that year, he and his master had tracked down a murderer in Lincoln town, and how the Templar had come upon the truth by unmasking the lies that had been told; and the manner in which one lie had led to another, and yet another, until all was revealed. Perhaps he could do the same thing now, on his own.

As Gianni left the Fossdyke and struck out across the marshy land to the west, he hastened his steps. It was a long way to Bettina’s village and he would need to get there and back again before the Templar found he was missing. As he ran he pictured in his imaginative young mind the accolades that would be heaped on his head if he was successful in his quest. Already he was gaining fast in literacy, due to the lessons the Templar had been giving him. After today, he would be praised not only for his learning, but also for his quick mind. One day soon, he assured himself, he would be trusted with tasks of importance, perhaps even, in time, become a secretarius to Lady Nicolaa herself. His inability to speak would be of little significance, he would be prized as a servant of the highest rank, and it would all be due to the conversation he had overheard that day.

Theheavy wain that bore Hubert’s coffin stood near the eastern gate of the bail with Godfroi de Tournay, Nicolaa de la Haye, Gerard Camville, and their son Richard all gathered to bid Marie and de Vetry farewell on their sad journey. Godfroi fussed with the dun-coloured palfrey his sister was to ride, checking the set of the saddle and asking Richard if he was sure the horse was placid enough to warrant no danger to Marie.

“We are only going as far as the river, Godfroi,” Marie protested. “From there de Vetry has hired a boat to take us to Boston. It will be an easier journey than by road and I shall have no need of a mount. This one will do very well for the short distance to the quay.” She shook her head in impatience. “Tell him, Joscelin, that there is no need for concern.”

The goldsmith moved forward, ignoring the look of dislike on Godfroi’s face. “I shall ensure that both your sister and the body of poor Hubert come to no harm. I will be with them all the way.”

Godfroi did no more than nod his acceptance of the goldsmith’s words, then made a point of ignoring him, turning to make conversation with Richard. Across the ward, the squires and pages of William Camville’s retinue were again at practice with the quintain, ignoring with youthful exuberance the sharpness of the cold wind and spatters of freezing rain that tossed around their heads.

To one side, Bascot and Ernulf stood watching the cortege prepare to depart, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, overlooked the group from the shelter of the keep’s entryway. Young Baldwin had remained in his chamber, the weather being too inclement for him to venture outside, and his betrothed, Alys, had stayed with him to keep him company. Those servants who were going about their duties in the great expanse of the ward steered a wide path around the wagon, attempting to avoid the truculent gaze of Gerard Camville as they passed by.

Nicolaa placed her hand soothingly on Marie’s arm. “Do not fret about your brother’s concern,” she said quietly. “It is just his distress about this matter that rises to the surface. He will calm when he hears that you have arrived safely in Boston. I have instructed one of my men-at-arms to accompany you and return with all speed to let us know you have done so.”

“Thank you, lady,” Marie said, her dark eyes filling with sudden tears. With an effort, she stemmed them and said, with a quaver in her voice, “I must admit my own temper is frayed. Telling Hubert’s mother how he met his death will not be easy. And I fear that she will want the coffin opened. I do not know, in all conscience, how I can prevent that. If she insists, it may well be that the sight of his poor body will be too much for her. She is not a very strong person and he was, after all, her only son and dear to her.”

“A child’s death is never easy for a mother,” Nicolaa responded. “But God will give you guidance, child, if you ask for it. Our prayers are with you.”

Marie nodded in acquiescence and mounted her palfrey. As she did so, a pair of riders entered the bail, a woman mounted on a fine black mare caparisoned in red and blue, and a man astride a dark bay alongside her. Both were wrapped in heavy cloaks, the woman’s hood trimmed with soft fur. They rode up to the funeral party and the man hastened to help his companion alight from her mount.

As the pair approached the small gathering, Ernulf let out a low chuckle and said to Bascot, “The Fleming woman has picked a poor day to seek an audience. Lady Nicolaa is not overfond of her at the best of times and I am sure she will give her short shrift on such a sad day.”

Bascot looked at the pair, recognising the agister, Copley, but not the woman who was with him. He asked Ernulf who she was, and the serjeant explained, “That is Melisande Fleming, chief forester for Lincoln. She is also heir to her late husband’s gold manufactory, and is ever trying to curry favour with Lady Nicolaa, hoping she can persuade her to use her influence with the king to bring more offices and commissions Melisande’s way. She is a greedy woman, the Fleming widow.”

“And Copley, the agister,” Bascot asked, “is he connected to her in some way other than holding his office from her?”

“They are related,” Ernulf replied. “Cousins of some distance, I believe, but it is said Copley hopes a closer relationship will develop. If he were to wed Melisande, the contents of her coffers would pay for enough wine to drown himself in.” The serjeant shook his grizzled head. “But the fool has little cause to hope. There are many men in Lincoln who sniff at the widow’s skirts, but she keeps them all dangling, like fish on a line. I doubt she will marry again. She is too fond of her wealth to give it over to the control of a husband.”

Bascot watched as Marie and de Vetry settled themselves on their horses and the men-at-arms of the escort took up positions in front and behind the cortege as it slowly exited the bail through the east gate. After they had left, Gerard Camville, with his son and Godfroi, walked over to the practice ground to watch the squires at their exertions, leaving Nicolaa to walk back to the keep with Melisande and Copley at her elbow.

“Come, de Marins,” Ernulf said, “let’s go and find something hot to warm our bellies. And a pot of ale to wash it down.”

Bascot readily agreed and, for the first time that morning, noticed that Gianni was not with him. He was so used to the boy dogging his every step that he had assumed the lad was waiting nearby, out of the coldness of the wind. But his servant was nowhere to be seen. Bascot shrugged it off. The lad was showing some independence lately and it was most likely he had found a task that would give him an excuse to stay indoors and keep warm. Hunching his shoulders against the swirling flakes of snow that were hesitantly beginning to fall, Bascot felt that he could not blame the boy for doing so.