Maureen Ash - Death of a Squire

The carter was waiting with his load of wood just inside the entrance to the west gate. He was sitting patiently, leaning against the pile of logs at his back, chewing on a piece of straw. When he saw Bascot, he straightened a little, but did not get down from his seat.

“The boy you saw, what did he look like?” Bascot asked shortly.

“Didn’t get a right good look at him, sir. Wouldn’t have noticed him at all except it seemed strange for a little lad like that to be outside the city walls all on his own at this time of year.” The man chewed ruminatively on the straw, not noticing Bascot’s impatience. “He wasn’t very tall,” he finally said, “and was as skinny as a sapling. About ten or eleven years old, I’d say. Had a peculiar hat on his head, like a soldier would wear on a march in cold weather. Couldn’t see what he looked like ’cause the hat hid his face and hair. But he was skipping along right merrily and kept looking over his shoulder.”

“What time of the morning was this?” Bascot asked, sure from the description of Ernulf’s hat that the boy the carter had seen had been Gianni.

The carter looked up at the sky. “A little earlier than it is right now. I was just coming with my load; allus do on the same two days of the week. The wood’s part of my fee as tenant to Lady Nicolaa…”

“Did you see him go into the forest?” Bascot interrupted, impatient with the man’s slowness.

The carter shook his head. “Had no reason to watch him, did I? He was headed that way and I gave him a passing glance, that’s all. I had to get on with my load, the traffic on the Fossdyke gets heavier the later it gets, and I got work to do when I get back to my byre. Besides, it was Martinmas; there was to be a feast later on, I didn’t want to miss that. And right enjoyable it was, too; my old pig came up with a good load of fat. I can still taste the tripe my old woman made from his innards, well toothsome it was…”

Bascot turned to Ernulf, ignoring the man’s pleasurable reminiscences. “I’ll need a couple of your men, Ernulf, to search the woods. Why he was out there, only the Good Lord knows, but if he spent the night in the forest, he will be in dire straits from the cold. I pray to God he’s still alive.”

Ernulf nodded and called to a couple of his men to follow as he and Bascot started off for the stables at a run.

It was as mounts were being saddled that a priest from St. Mary Crackpole, a church at the lower end of Lincoln town near the Stonebow gate, came puffing up to the door of the stables. He was young, with a round face and a head of hair that was pale and sparse. In his hand he clutched a small and dirty piece of parchment, and he struggled to catch his breath as he leaned his portly frame on the edge of the wide stable door.

“Sir Bascot? I am Father Michael, priest of St. Mary Crackpole. I have come to see you on a matter of importance.”

Bascot barely paid the man any attention, thinking the cleric had come on some errand to do with the housing of guests during the king’s visit. Many of the visitors were to be given beds in properties owned by the church. “I have no time now, Father,” Bascot replied. “Go to the hall. Lady Nicolaa’s steward or her secretarius will be pleased to attend you.”

The priest shook his head. “No, you do not understand, I have a message, given to one of my parishioners this morning. It is for you. And I believe it is urgent.”

The priest paused and inhaled deeply as his breathing slowed. “It mentions the brigand Sheriff Camville is holding prisoner, and a boy. Perhaps the lad that one of the men-at-arms on the gate told me you are looking for.”

Bascot’s head snapped up and Ernulf spun around from where he was adjusting the girth on one of the horses. “What is the message?” Bascot said tersely.

“It is a written one. Here, on this piece of parchment.” The priest held out the soiled scrap of vellum to the Templar.

Bascot unrolled it. Only a few words were printed in the middle of the torn and jagged square, the writing ill formed and the ink thin and splodgy.

If you wants the boy alive bring Fulcher to the crossing by the oak at None. Come alone.

At the bottom was a rough sketch of a wolf’s head.

“Who gave this to you?” Bascot asked the priest.

“As I said, one of my parishioners-”

“A man known to you?” Bascot’s tone was sharp and short.

The priest nodded. “It was handed to him this morning as he entered the church for Mass. The man who entrusted it to him said it was to be given to one of the priests, and given quickly, as there was a life at stake. He made particular mention that the priest who received it was to be told that it was for the Templar monk who serves the sheriff of Lincoln. My parishioner naturally thought that someone was ill, maybe dying, perhaps one of your brethren. He brought it to me directly.”

The monk looked uncomfortable as he saw the anger building in Bascot’s face. “It was unsealed, Sir Bascot. I did not know its import when first I read it, but the message itself speaks of evil threats. I came as fast as I could.”

“What does it say?” Ernulf asked. Since the serjeant was not literate, Bascot read it out and showed him the drawing that had been added. His friend’s face hardened with an anger that matched his own.

“The man who gave this to your parishioner, what did he look like?” Ernulf barked at the priest.

“I do not know,” the priest admitted. “I was told he was a rough fellow who was standing by the door of the church. After I read the message, I went to look for him, but he was gone.”

“Where is this crossing, Ernulf?” Bascot asked the serjeant.

“Can only be the one where the Trent borders the sheriff’s chase. There is a slight curve in the river there, to the west. An easterly spur of Sherwood Forest comes down hard on the other side.”

Bascot strode to the door, looking up at the sky as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Rain had begun to fall, and the grey lowering clouds that had earlier hung in the sky like dirty pregnant sheep had coalesced into a solid mass the colour of old pewter. It was now late morning, None just a little more that two hours hence. An hour’s ride, even in such inclement weather, should bring them to the spot that the message had designated.

Bascot moved back inside the stables. Ernulf, the man-at-arms, the priest and a pair of grooms were all watching him. “Ask Sheriff Camville if I may see him directly, Ernulf, if you would, and also Lady Nicolaa. I will be in the hall directly.”

As the serjeant turned to go, Bascot moved as quickly as his leg, now aching from a night without rest and the activities of the morning, would allow, to where the chest that held his belongings stood. Inside, along with his own spare tunic and the only other pair of hose that Gianni owned, was his Templar surcoat. He laid it carefully on the pallet beside the chest before calling to one of the grooms to bring him his helm and shirt of mail from the armoury.

Gianni looked cautiously around him. The camp to which he had been brought was quiet, the trees that encircled the clearing looming overhead in the early morning gloom like a great ill-fitting ceiling. Wisps of fog drifted eerily through the branches, the shapes flat as though a giant hand had pressed them. Sleeping bodies lay everywhere, some entwined together for warmth, others rolled into a foetal ball as though wishing never to leave their womb of sleep. In the middle of the clearing the remains of the fire that had been lit the night before barely smouldered, only tiny wisps of smoke reluctantly puffing as the embers underneath finally died.

The boy tried to see if there were any guards posted, but the darkness was too deep at the edge of the trees. Cautiously he stretched out his legs and, when his movement was not detected, he tested the security of the rope that bound his leg to the bole of a nearby tree.