Maureen Ash: Death of a Squire

“Still, it might be worthwhile for me to speak to them. They may know some fact that is pertinent and not realise its import.”

Nicolaa nodded. “I will have my steward summon them to one of the chambers below. And also instruct the forester to wait upon your pleasure.” With a decisive movement, she picked up the papers that lay on her desk and began to walk towards the door. “If there is nothing else, de Marins, I shall await your report after the evening meal.”

Dismissed, Bascot left the chamber. Once again he was embroiled in secret murder and he sent up a silent prayer that the outcome of this investigation would be as successful as the last one.

“Hubert was worse than a pain in the gut! I’m not sorry he’s dead. And I’m not afraid to say so.”

The pages and squires of William Camville’s retinue had, on instructions conveyed by the Haye steward, gathered in a small chamber to await the arrival of Bascot. The room was small and dusty, used as a repository for records of the revenues of Haye tenants, and was piled high with rolls of parchment and tally sticks. There was barely enough room for all to sit or stand in comfort.

The boy who had spoken was one of the younger ones, Osbert, who sat cross-legged on the floor and stared defiantly up at the two eldest, Alain and Renault, who were standing and leaning against the embrasure of the one small window in the room.

“Your honesty does you credit, Osbert,” Alain said to him with a small smile, “but I do not think it would be wise to be quite so forthright with Sir Bascot.”

“Perhaps not, but it is the truth,” Osbert maintained. He was nine years old, with hair the colour and shape of a wheat sheaf, and his green eyes glowed with outrage as he continued, “He was always sneering at us younger ones, saying we didn’t know one end of a lance from the other and that no amount of training would ever make us into knights. He was a bully and a braggart and you know it well, Alain, for you yourself changed angry words with him more than once.”

Alain, tall and slim at eighteen years old, with a sober face and rigidly erect posture, flushed slightly at the youngster’s words. “It was my duty to correct him. I was his senior in age and rank,” he said quietly.

“You weren’t correcting him when you told him you’d break his head if he dared approach your sister again,” Osbert retorted angrily. “And I’d have done the same if I had been you. He deserved what he got and I give praise to his murderer, whoever he may be.” His voice dropped a little lower, but was still defiant, as he added, “Even if that murderer was someone from our own household.”

Renault, a few months younger than Alain, straightened up from his relaxed position. He was a Poitevin, the only one of the group whose family did not possess a fief in England. He was wirily built, with black hair, sallow skin and dark eyes. Always moving with a slow unhurried grace, he had nevertheless proved his skill at the quintain and on the practice field, and gave promise of one day being a redoubtable knight. He now looked down at the feisty little Osbert, smiled and said languidly, “You have an impertinent tongue, little one. Be careful it doesn’t get you into trouble.”

The words, spoken so carelessly, nevertheless held a hint of warning and Osbert reluctantly clamped his mouth shut, contenting himself with clenching his small fists and bunching them on his knees.

One of the other boys spoke up, a lad whose name was Harold but who was always called Rufus for the redness of his complexion. At fourteen, and having just obtained the rank of squire, he was not quite as fearful of Renault as the younger Osbert. “You hated Hubert as much as any of us, Renault. I remember when you found out that he had taken your new belt and worn it. You were very angry.”

Renault turned his gaze on Rufus. “No angrier than you when he dropped one of his boots in the midden and made you clean it.”

Rufus lowered his head and made no reply. Pushing himself upright, Renault heaved a sigh. “But you are right, Rufus, and so is Osbert. All of us have reason to rejoice that pig’s turd is dead.” He glanced around at them all and, with a lazy grin, added, “My only regret is that I promised Hubert a good thrashing if he continued with his pilfering ways. I should have given it to him then. Now he is dead, I will not get the chance.”

This remark brought titters from all the rest of the boys except one, a lad about Rufus’s age named Hugo. He was sitting on the floor, fiddling with a piece of straw, and had not raised his head once since they had all gathered in the room.

“What ails you, Hugo?” Alain asked. “Are you ill?”

Hugo finally looked up. Alain was his cousin and it was no secret that the youngster had a great admiration for his elder kinsman. “No, Alain, I am not ill,” he replied with a tremble in his voice. “I just wish that Hubert was not dead. I did not like him any more than the rest of you, but still I wish that he was not dead.”

The two youngest of the group, seven-year-old pages sent by their families, like the rest, to William Camville to spend the long years of training for knighthood, looked fearful at the anguish in Hugo’s voice. One of them rubbed at his eye with a knuckle, trying to stem the tears that were threatening to trickle down his cheeks.

Osbert, who was sitting near the lad, gave him a sidelong glance and then a push on the shoulder along with a command to stop snivelling. The boy smothered his sobs with an effort and wiped his running nose on his sleeve.

Alain moved forward into the midst of the group. “These speculations are not profitable, nor are they just. It is clear that none of us had any love for Hubert or are sorry he is dead. And if we feel this way, there must be many others not of our household who feel the same. But we must be wary of what we tell the Templar. Suspicion is easily cast on an innocent person. To be circumspect is the only honourable course.”

“And the most advisable,” Renault commented wryly. “The less that is made of this matter, the better for all of us. Even the little ones know that it would hardly help the reputation of any of us here, or that of our families, to be suspected of secret murder. I do not intend to risk losing the chance of winning my spurs for such a one as Hubert, whether he be alive or dead.”

Although Alain gave his friend an angry glance for the baldness of his words, the rest of the boys nodded to each other in agreement; Osbert and Rufus enthusiastically. All, that is, except Hugo. He only gave his cousin Alain a surreptitious glance filled with fear, then bowed his head before it should be noticed, and resumed his mournful contemplation of the musty trampled rushes beneath his feet.

Bascot’s talk with William Camville’s pages and squires left him feeling both amused and confused.

All of the young men and boys had denied any knowledge of the reason Hubert had been out in the forest on the night he had been murdered. When Bascot had suggested that the person or persons who had killed the squire might not have been outlaws, but someone known to the dead boy, they had all easily accepted that as a possibility.

Their general dislike of the dead squire had been evident in the way they had spoken of him, but none had admitted to having a particular grudge against him, nor of knowing anyone who had. This seemed an unlikely proposition in view of how disagreeable they had made Hubert sound. Only Osbert had offered any information that might be of interest. Hubert had, the page proclaimed, often boasted of his prowess with women, bragging that once he had bedded a wench she could not wait for more of the same.