Maureen Ash - Death of a Squire

And her brother-by-marriage, de Humez-was his assurance of innocence in the matter of the boy’s death a truthful one? And his attempt to convince her that he was not involved in any treasonous scheme to supplant John-could she believe him? It was difficult to be completely sure. Even William could be considered suspect; perhaps the boy had overheard something in his lord’s household and had paid the ultimate price for his snooping. And were the murders of Chard and his sons tied to the squire’s death? And if so, how? Had they been privy to the identity of the person who had slain Hubert? Was that the reason that they, in turn, had been killed?

She pondered on the two squires, Alain and Renault. She could see neither of them as murderers. Alain might have given Hubert a terrible beating if he had found him that night, but if either had been intent on killing him, it was more likely to have been done during practice at swordplay, or with a lance. Easy enough to pretend a misjudged stroke had caused his death by accident and both squires were skilled enough at arms to do so. Hubert would have been an easy target if they had been so inclined.

Another thought struck her, just as unpleasant as the last. Could the two squires have left the hall that night with the express purpose of killing Hubert, and were only using the story of his offensive behaviour with Alys as a cover for their real reason for wanting the squire’s death? Was it William, instead of her husband and de Humez, who was involved in a plot against the king and the boys knew it? If that was so, then the two squires, mimicking the barons who had murdered the exasperating Thomas a Becket for King Henry, could have reasoned that they were doing their lord a favour by ridding him of the troublesome squire. Henry had professed that he had not been guilty of ordering his barons to kill the archbishop, but few had believed him. Was it possible William was now caught in a similar snare?

Reluctant to accept such a possibility she pushed her mind away from thoughts of treason and once more ruminated on the manner of the squire’s death. Perhaps the hanging had not been intended as a warning. Could it be possible that, instead, it spoke of a need for revenge? If the desecration by the birds had been intended, then it had certainly slaked a need to humiliate the boy in death that the murderer might not have been able to achieve while Hubert lived. Or had it only been made to seem so, and the apparent vengeance was in itself misleading?

She sighed in frustration and paused in her reflections, pouring herself a cup of cider spiced with cinnamon, a beverage she preferred to wine. As she sipped it, she thought that her time would be better spent in sending up a prayer for the safe deliverance of de Marins’s mute servant than in expending her energies in useless speculation. Resolutely she pushed the matter from her mind and set herself instead to work on composing a letter of welcome to be sent to the Scottish king the following morning.

Joanna, Melisande’s daughter, was in her mother’s fine stone house in Lincoln. Melisande was not at home, having left early that morning to attend a meeting of the goldsmith’s guild to discuss plans for presenting a gift to King John on his arrival in the town. The servants, too, were all gone on various tasks for their mistress around the city, except for the young girl who tended the brood of hens caged in the yard at the back of the house.

Joanna peered out of one of the two casements that brought in light to a chamber on the upper storey of the widow’s home. The room served as her mother’s solar and, like the rest of the rooms, was liberally strewn with the expensive tapestries, cushions and furs that Melisande loved. But Joanna had no thought for the comfort that surrounded her. She strode nervously from one window to another, then to a brazier that stood in one corner of the room, heaped with glowing coals, where she warmed her hands with a wringing motion that had more of nervousness in its movement than a wish to bring heat to her cold flesh.

Anxiously she listened for the church bells to ring the hour of None, knowing, as most of Lincoln town did by now, that this was the time when the Templar would be at the riverbank to try to obtain his servant’s release. Once she heard the bells, Joanna would go to the castle, for when news came as to whether the exchange of prisoners had been successful, it would first come there. She needed to know that her lover was safe and, despite her mother’s warning, did not intend to give him up. Only death could force her to do that.

Green Jack was perched in the top of a tree some little way from the spot on the riverbank where his men were holding the Templar’s servant. He had a good vantage point and, despite the bareness of the leafless branches, would not easily be spotted in his clothes of russet brown twined with the half-dead vines. His vision was exceptionally keen, especially for long distances, and he scanned the area surrounding him, looking for the sheriff’s men. He knew they would be there, to the north and south of the old oak, but, hopefully, not on both sides of the river. Although he had instructed the Templar to come alone, he had not expected that command to be obeyed, especially when he had no doubt that Gerard Camville would be involved in the rescue. The sheriff would dearly love to capture even a few of Jack’s men and there was no doubt as to the fate of any who should be so luckless as to end up in Camville’s merciless hands.

Although Green Jack knew the dangers of using the boy as bait, he had been unable to resist the temptation of luring the Templar into the forest. But he had been careful not to stretch the risk to his own person too far. He was some little distance from the crossing he had specified and had sent the men most expendable from his band to be in the forefront of the danger. Berdo, Talli and Edward, the reeve’s nephew, were with the boy; the first two Fulcher’s men and of no importance, and the last too stupid to be of any further use even if he should not be captured. Jack had given instructions to the archers he had sent with them to withdraw into the forest if it looked as though the plan to capture the Templar was going awry.

The Templar. The thought of having one of the men who wore that hated red cross in his, Jack’s, power brought a surge of emotion to his loins that was almost lascivious. How many times had he dreamed that he would one day humiliate one of them, and in just such a manner as they had done to him so many years ago when he had been no more than a lad, a stupid young boy who had idolized their holiness, their strength, their dedication. Whenever one or more of the supposedly virtuous knights had chanced to appear on the streets of Nottingham where he had lived as a child, he had rushed to watch them ride by on their gleaming horses, imagining the valiant deeds they would perform in the Holy Land, and the infidels they would kill in defence of the pilgrims they protected.

Now his thin lips curled in wry amusement of how feeble-witted he had been to believe the stories that circled the Templars like halos of glory. Holy monks who fought for Christ it was said, but they were no better than mercenary soldiers, lower even, for what they did was not for monetary profit, but for love of their own vanity, and to promulgate their sordid vices. He could still remember the day he had managed to scuttle through the gates into the yard of the Templar preceptory in Nottingham, how he had hidden behind some bales of hay and watched a few of the knights at sword practice. They had seemed like giants to him rather than mere men, wielding flashing blades of light as the swords arced up and down, thrusting, cutting, parrying. So intent on the dazzling display had he been that he had not heard the brown-robed serjeant approach him from behind, nor been aware of his discovery until a hand clad in a gauntlet of leather had clamped down on his shoulder. Then he had been swung from his hiding place and tossed out onto the edge of the practice field as lightly and easily as if he had been a flea thrown from a dog.