Maureen Ash: Death of a Squire

Thirty

K ING J OHN’S ENTRY INTO L INCOLN WAS TRIUMPHAL, despite the intermittent sleeting rain and biting cold, and the warnings of the old legend that said calamity would befall any king who entered the city. The people of the town lined the streets to watch as their monarch passed before them, his figure resplendent in purple and gilt, astride a snow-white charger caparisoned in the same colours. He waved and smiled at his subjects from the warmth of a fur-lined cloak and hat, leading a procession of knights, squires and pages. Beside him, his new young wife, Isabelle, barely thirteen years of age, peeped out at the throng from the depths of her hood and smiled in her turn, albeit tremulously. Every time she did so, the crowd redoubled its shouts of welcome, strewing garlands woven of winter leaves and berries in front of the procession to proclaim their joy.

Lincoln castle’s reception was no less warm. Ernulf and his men-at-arms lined the inner side of the huge eastern gate into the bail, all at attention. The metal of their caps was polished bright as a summer sun and the Haye badge of a twelve-pointed star of red glowed proudly against its silver background on the breast of their tunics.

At the entrance to the new keep, Gerard and Nicolaa awaited the monarch and his queen. Beside them stood their son, Richard, and down the stairs on either side were ranged the barons and knights that had come to do the king honour and stand witness to Scotland’s pledge of fealty. John, greeting all affably, led his young wife up the stairs and into the hall, where a feast of no less than ten courses was laid out for the company.

Bascot stayed apart from the throng until later that evening, when a more simple meal was served. He took a place near the back of the hall, at a table set aside for Lincoln’s household knights, and viewed the company that was assembled on the dais.

The Templar had only seen the king a couple of times before, in the days when John had been just a young prince, but he seemed not to have changed much in appearance since then. He was about Bascot’s own age, a few years past thirty, of medium height and with dark auburn hair. The young woman who had so recently become his wife sat beside him. She was very pretty, almost lushly so, Bascot noticed, with a ripe figure that belied her youth and a beguiling smile that was turned with frequency on her new husband and less often, but with only a little less radiance, on the company that surrounded them.

Nicolaa and Gerard, as hosts, flanked their royal guests. Ranged along the high table with them were various barons, William Camville and Richard de Humez among them, and a phalanx of prelates of high rank. Scattered amongst these were those ladies who had accompanied their lords on the trip to Lincoln, while Richard Camville, as son of the sheriff and castellan, had claimed the privilege of serving the king, standing behind John’s chair with basin and ewer at the ready for the monarch to rinse his hands, and a piece of crisply folded linen for use as a towel.

There was a multitude of squires and pages in attendance on the company, both from Lincoln’s household retinue and those of the visiting barons. Among them Bascot saw Alain and Renault serving one of the tables that flanked the dais and, farther back, young Hugo and Osbert waited on a group of ladies that included Alys and Alinor. Near them, accompanied by the castle chaplain, was Baldwin, his eyes alight with elation as he gazed on the king.

The evening went smoothly. Nicolaa’s lady troubadour played for the king’s pleasure and was rewarded by John with a gold piece and an appreciative glance at her ample bosom. Minstrels roamed the aisles, strumming rebec, lyre and viol. The freshly strewn rushes on the floor gave off a pleasant herbal tang and the castle hounds behaved themselves. On high perches behind the exalted company, falcons peered down at the assemblage with sharp predatory eyes. Bascot knew that the sheriff intended one of them, a fine gerfalcon, as a gift for the king. Wine flowed freely throughout the evening, but no one over-imbibed. Torches flared at regular intervals along the walls to illuminate the huge room, and thick beeswax candles gave extra radiance to the company on the dais. It was all very decorous. Only the strained look on Nicolaa’s face and the watchful glances William Camville gave his monarch would have given a hint that these two were on edge; both fearful of John’s reaction to the rumours of treason that had surrounded the squire’s death.

The next day saw the reception of King William of Scotland, come from his quarters in the guest lodge of the abbey at Torksey. The two kings met on a knoll just outside the walls of Lincoln and there John received homage from William for the lands the Scottish king held in England. It was a formal ceremony, William going down on one knee and placing his hands between John’s in acknowledgement of his acceptance of the other as lord. An old wrangle, this warring for rights of sovereignty over the disputed lands, one going back many years. The assembled company gave a great sigh of relief when the deed was done. John’s satisfaction was evident, his supremacy recognised in front of a plenitude of witnesses. He presided with extreme good humour over the feast that followed in the castle hall. The only marring of the day’s bonhomie was the arrival of a messenger from London with the news that Bishop Hugh had breathed his last. The emissary also told them that the body of the bishop was being brought back to Lincoln, and would, in accordance with Hugh’s wishes, be interred in the grounds of the cathedral. After a brief respectful silence followed by a short prayer, John announced his intention of staying for the obsequies; whereupon William of Scotland proclaimed that he also would remain and join with the English king in paying their final respects to the saintly bishop.

Bascot stayed apart as much as he could from the mass of people that crowded the bailey and hall, his thoughts still on Tostig and the murders the forester had committed. His own part in the discovery of the man’s guilt still bothered him, mainly because of Joanna’s words blaming his persistence in the investigation for the deaths of the charcoal burner and his sons. His satisfaction at discovering the perpetrator of the crime was tainted by the burden of responsibility that had accompanied it. He began to think again of rejoining the Templar Order. But, if he did, could he bear leaving Gianni to the care of others?

Late that night, as he was sitting in Ernulf’s quarters, ruminating once again on what he should do for the future of both himself and his servant, the serjeant came in from a last check on his men and the castle defences.

“The lords and ladies are all abed, thanks be to God. I’ll be glad when this royal visit is over. As will Lady Nicolaa, I’ll warrant.” The serjeant poured himself a cup of ale and pulled off his boots before sitting down beside Bascot.

“You are up late, my friend,” Ernulf said to him. “Is the bed I gave you too hard to induce a restful night?” He cast an eye at Gianni, curled up fast asleep on a straw pallet in the corner.

“No,” Bascot replied. “I am thankful for it. I have slept on far worse.”

“Aye, I’ve no doubt you have. Still, sleep is not always dependent on a soft couch, is it?”

Bascot shook his head and made no reply. Ernulf, seeing his mood, changed the subject. “I’ve just been talking to an old comrade that rode in here today from Torksey. Strange doings been going on there, it seems.”

Bascot roused himself to be sociable. “How so?”

“Two bodies found floating near the banks of the Trent, tied to one another at the wrists. Vagrants, by the look of them. Or brigands. Unkempt hair and beards, a few scraps of ragged clothing left on their bodies. Both had wounds, one an arrow-hole in his leg, the other’s back and face a mass of bruises and gashes.”