Maureen Ash: The Alehouse Murders

Hilde listened intently as Bascot explained who he believed had committed the murders and his reasons for thinking so. When he had finished, she nodded. “Yes, Templar. It all fits. Like a rotten plum hidden deep in a basket, hard to find until one tastes it and knows it to be rank.”

They were sitting in Hilde’s chamber, alone. Gianni had been left in Bascot’s room and admonished to keep practising his letters while Hilde’s servant, Freyda, had been sent to keep watch outside the door while her mistress and Bascot talked together. The old lady had herself poured the wine they were drinking from a pair of small cups decorated with silver gilt.

“Will you go to the sheriff with your findings?” Hilde asked.

“I cannot, not yet,” Bascot replied. “First I must have proof. Even if Camville agrees with me, he must have some evidence to lay a charge.”

Hilde held out her cup for Bascot to refill. “Such proof will be hard to find,” she said.

“Unless we devise some,” Bascot answered quietly.

Hilde’s bright blue eyes regarded him. “You have thought of a means of doing that?” she asked disbelievingly.

“If my instinct is true and the stabbing of Father Anselm is connected to the other murders-for something he may have unwittingly seen or heard that constituted a threat-then I think I have. But I shall need your help to make it convincing, if you are willing.”

“You shall have every assistance I can give you, Templar,” Hilde assured him. She leaned forward. “Now, tell me what it is that I must do.”

The great hall was crowded that night, full almost beyond capacity, just as it had been on the eve of the fair. All those who had been deemed to have any connection with the murders were present, even Philip de Kyme, who had been persuaded to join the company by Gerard Camville with the promise that his wife and stepson would be seated well away from him and warned not to approach the baron under any circumstances. Outside there had been a light shower of rain, not sufficient to threaten the tourney that was to take place on the morrow, but heavy enough to lessen the heat that had gathered by the end of the day. Once the meal was over, the trestle tables were cleared from the middle of the huge room and minstrels were summoned to play while members of the company danced or just listened to the music. Nicolaa and her husband presided over the company, making a point of moving about amongst their guests and engaging most of them in conversation.

Hilde was there also, leaning heavily on the arm of her great-nephew, Conal, as she walked about the room. Finally she asked him to seat her with a group of guests still sitting at a small side table, lingering over their wine in a desultory fashion. Hilde was unusually affable, leaning across to ask a question of one or the other of her companions, or to pay a compliment.

She sat for some little time in this manner, before leaning back and, under cover of the flow of conversation and the strains of the music, said in a low voice to the person who sat beside her, “I have much cause to rejoice this night. Conal and his mother have been proved innocent, and the identity of the true murderer discovered.”

Furrows appeared between the brows of her companion, but Hilde made it appear that she had not noticed and blithely continued speaking. “It seems that the Templar was with Father Anselm just before he died, and the priest told him who it was that had stabbed him. De Marins believes that it was the same person that killed de Kyme’s son and his wife, and says he has proof to support it. He told me privately that the innocence of my relatives is now not in question, although he would add nothing further. Of course, the Templar is a monk and must consider whether he can reveal what Anselm told him in such extreme conditions, but since he is not a priest he is not bound by the oath of the confessional. I am confident that by morning he will tell what he knows to Sheriff Camville and the murderer will be arrested.”

Hilde paused to let her gaze roam over the company before adding, with a smile of satisfaction, “Yes, even now, de Marins is preparing to spend the night in a solitary vigil before the altar of St. Clement’s. God will guide him aright, I am sure of it. By this time tomorrow, Conal and Sybil will be free of the charge against them.”

Just before midnight, Bascot put on the Templar surcoat he had not worn since he had come to Lincoln. The red cross emblazoned on the pristine white cloth of the coat settled comfortably over his heart. He had not donned a shirt of mail underneath, fearing it might warn the murderer he was expecting to be attacked and had, instead, chosen to wear a well-padded gambeson under his dark-sleeved tunic. With any luck it would provide as much, or more, protection as the hair shirt Father Anselm had worn. Finally he smoothed his fingers through his hair and beard, adjusted his eye patch and left the room. The only weapon he carried was the short-bladed knife at his belt.

The sounds of revelry from the hall could be heard as he crossed the bail. The outbuildings were all but deserted, the servants of the castle either in attendance on the guests in the keep or asleep in their beds. Shortly before midnight Bascot let himself through the postern gate in the north wall and walked along the cobbled path that led to the small church of St. Clement. Near the entrance he could see two shadowy figures waiting for him. D’Arderon and a Templar priest.

As Bascot approached, the preceptor came forward and spoke quietly. “We are here, de Marins, as you asked. Where shall we keep watch?”

“The sacristy,” Bascot replied. “The door is in the shadows. You can see out, but none can see in.”

They went inside the church and d’Arderon and the priest crossed the nave, going to a small door near the altar. Just before he slipped inside d’Arderon turned and whispered a benediction. “God be with you, de Marins. And with this venture.”

Once they were out of sight, Bascot knelt at the low rail in front of the altar, crossing himself and murmuring a prayer as he did so. The darkness inside the building was relieved only by the small glimmer of the sanctuary lamp and the larger brightness of one fat beeswax candle. Above the altar hung a wooden crucifix carved with the tortured body of Christ, the candle’s light accentuating the hollows of the face and glistening upon the nails thrust cruelly through the hands. With one last plea for heavenly aid, Bascot stretched himself out full-length on the stones of the floor, face down and arms extended so that his body formed an imitation of the cross that hung above him.

As Bascot’s cheek touched the coldness of the stone, he was reminded of the night before he had taken his vow to become a Templar, when he had lain in just such a fashion. But then there had been gladness and joy in his heart, not stealth. This time, instead of meditating upon God and contemplating a future in His service, Bascot was laying his back open to an assassin’s knife, hoping that the murderer of Hugo and the others would be tempted to try to silence him before he had a chance to reveal the name that Anselm had supposedly whispered on his deathbed. It was a wild scheme, as d’Arderon had said, but Bascot hoped it would work.

There was no sound from the sacristy, but Bascot could feel d’Arderon’s presence as surely as if the preceptor were kneeling beside him. Since the laws of old King Henry stated that, other than a close relative, only a witness to the act of murder or attempted murder could lay a charge against the assailant, Bascot had asked the Temple for help in providing one. D’Arderon, on learning of the danger Bascot proposed to put himself in, had insisted on coming himself. He had brought a priest with him in case his services should be needed. Bascot fervently hoped they would not.