Murder for Christ's Mass (5 page)

“I know what you are warning me of, Richard,” Camville growled. “I am well aware that King John holds me in scant regard—as I do him—and, whether there is a trove or not, he will be quick to accuse me of conspiring to keep its contents from his grasping fingers.”

He spoke to Bascot. “Are any others beside yourself and your servant aware you found this coin?”

“No, lord,” the Templar replied. “The mason and quarryman were not with us when we searched the top of the cliff.”

“Good,” Camville exclaimed. “Then, for now, we will keep it between ourselves.”

The sheriff resumed his pacing for a few moments before he spoke again. “De Marins, as a Templar, your probity is beyond question. If you are my representative in this matter, it will allay any suspicions about the intent of the investigation. Now that you know what is involved, are you willing to make an enquiry into the clerk’s murder on my behalf?”

Although Gerard Camville was nominal lord over the estates Nicolaa de la Haye held through her inheritance from her father, including the castellanship of the castle, it suited the sheriff’s indolent nature to leave the management of the vast demesne in his wife’s hands. Camville’s attitude to the responsibilities of the shrievality, however, was completely different. The office of sheriff was a lucrative one and Gerard guarded his rights jealously; an accusation of wrongdoing, even if not proved, might indeed bring reprisals from the king and could result in Camville’s removal from office. The sheriff and the king had no liking for each other, although they had once joined forces in rebellion against King Richard during a time when John, then a prince, had attempted to wrest the throne of England from his elder brother’s grasp. Now that John was king, he was suspicious of the nobles who had supported him, fearing they would once again show a willingness to change their allegiance and conspire against him. He was therefore wary of Camville, deeming him factious. Only the king’s longstanding friendship with Nicolaa de la Haye and his confidence in her loyalty kept John from depriving her husband of the sheriff’s post, but Camville was well aware that John would not hesitate to do so if he felt he had just cause.

When Bascot and Gianni had first arrived in Lincoln, Gerard Camville and his wife had willingly given the weary pair shelter and treated them with courtesy. For that kindness alone, the Templar owed them both a debt of gratitude. But he also had a genuine liking for Lady Nicolaa and a great deal of respect for her husband. He was more than willing to make every effort he could to keep the sheriff’s reputation free of odium.

The Templar gave his reply without hesitation. “I will be pleased to assist you in whatever way I can, lord.”

The sheriff gave a grunt of satisfaction and Bascot asked if he knew whether anyone had reported Brand’s absence over the days the clerk had been missing.

“No,” Camville replied, “the town bailiff always tells me immediately of such cases and there has been no recent report of any missing persons. The last one was some months ago when a draper came to the bailiff claiming his daughter had been abducted. And even that was a false alarm, for the girl had run off with her lover. It is not often people disappear in Lincoln without someone being aware of their whereabouts.”

“Do you know if the clerk had any family, Father?” Richard asked. “If he did, I would have thought one of them would have been distressed by his disappearance.”

The sheriff thought for a moment. “As far as I recall, Brand came to Lincoln with Helias de Stow and his family when the moneyer took up his post a little over a year ago. Both of them lived in Grantham before that. But even if the clerk did not have any kin in town, I would have thought de Stow would have wondered why his clerk was not at his place of work. It is curious he did not mention it to someone in authority.”

He paused, and then said decisively, “That is the best place to start your investigation, de Marins, with the moneyer. There is not much that can be done today while the celebrations for Christ’s Mass are being held. Most of the town will be either at the cathedral or feasting with family and friends, the moneyer amongst them. But tomorrow morning de Stow is likely to be at home; his house is the one that stands next to the mint on the other side to the exchange. Go there and ask him if Brand was due to be at work over the days the clerk has been missing and, if he was, why de Stow did not mention his absence to the bailiff. Even if his answer satisfies you, try also to determine, in a discreet fashion, if the clerk had a legitimate reason for carrying such an old coin on his person.”

“It might also be profitable to ask Cerlo if he or any of the quarrymen have been atop the cliff face in the last week or two,” Bascot suggested. “It could be that one of them, or a visitor to the quarry, dropped the coin. If so, their possession of it may prove legitimate. It could be a keepsake handed down by a relative or simply a token kept for good luck. If it was, it will have no connection with a trove.”

“Let us hope that is what happened,” Camville said curtly. “I would much prefer to find that Brand’s killing is a simple case of murder committed during the course of a robbery than because of some conspiracy involving hidden treasure. But all the same, de Marins, make no mention of finding the coin to anyone you question. As I said, I want its existence kept privily for the nonce.”

“And if Coroner Pinchbeck should return to Lincoln before you are satisfied about the provenance of the penny, Father, will you tell him about it?” Richard asked dubiously. “The investigation of a trove is as much within his writ as yours and it would greatly enhance his standing with the king if he can claim the credit for finding one. He will be very irate if you do not tell him.”

Camville scowled in disgust. “No, I will say nothing to him until I know whether my suspicions are valid or not. The man is a lazy bastard and takes advantage of my help whenever he has the opportunity to do so. Let him remain in ignorance until I am ready to enlighten him.”

Five

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, AFTER THE MASS OF THE Divine Word, the task of decorating the hall had been completed, and, as the company assembled, they looked about them appreciatively. On the walls hung circlets of holly depicting the crown of thorns that Jesus wore, the bright red berries nestling amongst the dark green leaves symbolising drops of His precious blood. Ropes of ivy and sprigs of bay festooned the tables and the room flared with light from a multitude of torches and beeswax candles. In the hearth, the trunk of an oak tree burned and the heady scent of cloves wafted from mounds of spiced winter apples heaped in bowls on the tables. The ambience was warm and welcoming.

As the cathedral bells rang out the hour of Vespers, flagons of wine and ale were brought in and cups filled. At the high table on the dais, Gerard Camville sat with his wife and guests. On his left were Gilbert Bassett and his wife, Egelina; their daughter Eustachia was keeping company with Richard farther down the board. The young couple made a handsome pair, Richard’s bright red hair and fair complexion a startling contrast to the dark tresses and deep brown eyes of the woman he would soon pledge to make his wife.

On the sheriff’s right hand, beside Lady Nicolaa, sat Ralph of Turville and his wife, Maud, with Eustachia’s younger sister, Lucia, watching protectively over Turville’s young son, Stephen. Gesticulating with her hands towards the musicians that had begun to play quietly at the back of the hall, Lucia talked volubly to Stephen while the boy, silent behind his silken muffler, nodded in response.

Just below the dais, where the household knights sat, Bascot took his customary seat above the ornately worked silver saltcellar that marked the dividing line between those of high rank and low. He gave a friendly nod to John Blund, secretarius to Nicolaa de la Haye, who was seated on his left in the space reserved for those who were foremost among the upper servants of the household.

Blund was an elderly man, a sparse figure with eyes of faded blue and thinning hair. His demeanour was gentle, but his face had an intelligent cast and there was a hint of fastidiousness in his erect bearing. Across the board from Blund was Lambert, the secretary’s assistant, a man of about thirty years of age and unprepossessing appearance, his lantern-jawed visage wearing its habitual introspective expression. His aspect lightened, however, when he saw Gianni and he gave the boy a companionable smile. It was Lambert’s responsibility, under Blund’s direction, to instruct the Templar’s servant in the rules of grammar and logic, and he seemed to have formed a comradely liking for the lad, even taking the time to learn the hand signals Gianni used to communicate with his master in the hope it would facilitate the lessons he gave the boy. When Lambert nodded respectfully in the Templar’s direction, Bascot returned the greeting with warmth.

Once everyone was seated, the steward, Eudo, gave a signal to the musicians and they struck up a lively air, the strings of rebec and citole providing a harmonious background to the sweet piping of flutes. As the opening strains commenced, a procession of servants came through the door that led to the kitchen, the foremost carrying wide-mouthed bowls of wassail—a costly brew of mulled ale, ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon topped with sops, or slices, of toasted stale bread. One of these bowls was laid on every table, even those at the back of the hall where the servants of lowest rank were seated, and as each of them were set down, everyone shouted the old Saxon cry of
waes hael,
to wish one another “good health.” Following the bowls of wassail was a huge board carried by a half dozen servants, on which was laid a whole roasted pig, including the head, its mouth stuffed with an apple. This was placed on a small table near the dais so Eudo could carve it before it was served to those seated at the high table. In the wake of the roast pig came trays laid with slices of venison and goose—for the delectation of the knights and upper household servants—and, at the end of the train, umble pies—minced offal baked in coffins of pastry filled with thick gravy. These were for those of menial rank. There were also platters of boiled turnip, parsnip, onions and carrots, and loaves of bread piled high in wicker baskets.

After all these delicacies had been devoured, bowls of frumenty, a thick porridge made of boiled wheat, eggs and dried fruit, would be served along with creamy slices of cheese and a plenitude of winter apples and plum conserve. It was a time of rare feasting and one that everyone—those of high station as well as low—looked forward to all the year long.

As Gianni heaped Bascot’s trencher with chunks of venison, the Templar gave the boy permission, once he finished his task, to take a seat alongside Lambert. Normally Gianni would wait until Bascot had eaten his meal before he was allowed to get his own food, but the day of Christ’s Mass was one of leniency and goodwill, and the Templar felt that the boy, whose eyes were shining with expectation as he dished up his master’s food, could be allowed the laxity. The rest of the household knights seated alongside Bascot were allowing their servants the same liberty and, on the dais, Nicolaa de la Haye gave the pages serving the high table leave to join in the feast. Even the cook and kitchen scullions sat down at a table near the door and helped themselves to the food they had spent so many hours preparing.

The air of merriment increased as tumblers entered the hall and began to cavort among the throng, playing silly tricks as they did so. Some snatched apples from the very mouths of those who were eating them and made them disappear, while others surprised the serving maids by pretending to pull bright ribbons from the necks of their gowns. As the acrobats amused the company, the musicians strolled around the perimeter of the room, playing merry tunes.

As Bascot looked across at Gianni, who was hungrily tucking into the leg of a goose, the Templar once again felt a pang of sadness that he would be leaving Lincoln in a few months’ time. It had not been so very long since he had decided it would be necessary for him to leave the Templar Order to ensure the safety of Gianni’s welfare. It had only been through the intervention of Amery St. Maur, master of the Templar Order in England, that Bascot’s sacrifice had not been necessary. St. Maur had given Bascot sanction to remain in Lincoln until next Eastertide while Gianni completed his training as a clerk and, at the end of that time, if the boy showed competence, Nicolaa de la Haye had promised Gianni a post in her retinue. Since then, Gianni had applied himself to his studies with an industry that gave no doubt he would win the castellan’s approval and realise his dream of becoming a clerk. Pride in the boy’s accomplishments warred with regret in Bascot’s heart. He longed to rejoin his Templar brothers in their battle against the infidel but, at the same time, he knew he would sorely miss the young lad.

John Blund saw the emotion that clouded the Templar’s face and spoke in a whisper too soft for Gianni to hear. “Do not be concerned for the boy, Sir Bascot. Once you are gone from Lincoln, I assure you I will personally oversee his welfare and, if the infirmities of old age or my death should make me incapable of fulfilling that duty, Lady Nicolaa has promised to take my place.”