Murder for Christ's Mass (6 page)

“I know that, Master Blund, and am grateful for it,” Bascot replied earnestly. “But I shall miss his company all the same.”

“And he yours,” Blund rejoined. “But even though both of your lives will change after you are gone from Lincoln, your affection for one another will not. Many a father would wish such closeness with his son as you have with Gianni. It is a true blessing and should be cherished, even if it must be done in absence.”

Bascot accepted the wisdom in the secretary’s words and both men resumed their enjoyment of the viands on their trenchers. Some moments later, Blund spoke again, inclining his head in the direction of the high table. “It would seem young Master Stephen is most interested in the way Gianni is conversing with Lambert.”

Bascot glanced up and saw that Turville’s son was watching intently as Gianni moved his hands quickly in Lambert’s direction, conveying how much he was enjoying the food on his plate by pointing to his trencher, his mouth and his stomach in rapid succession, then giving a light clap of his hands. Lambert nodded in response and then remarked that he wished they could eat such fare at every meal, and Gianni made another quick movement of his fingers in a signal of hearty agreement. At the high table, Stephen Turville placed his hand on Lucia’s arm to get her attention and pointed in Gianni’s direction.

“Because of his impediment, Turville’s boy speaks little,” Blund said. “And even when he does, there are few that can understand him, his speech is so distorted. I think he is admiring the way in which Gianni, despite his muteness, communicates with others.” The secretary became reflective. “While he was learning the gestures, Lambert wrote down a description of them as an aid to memory and I read through the notes he made. Some are obvious, but others are not, not until you are told what they signify. I wonder if it would be worthwhile to make a permanent record of them. Such a manual might be of interest to tutors who have the task of teaching others afflicted with similar difficulties to your servant and Master Stephen, or to those who have been born deaf and never heard the spoken word. I am sure Lambert would be only too pleased to make a copy for any local scholar who shows interest in such a guide. And I would be more than willing to dedicate my own labour to such a charitable task.”

Bascot agreed that such a record might be useful, but, as he did so, both his and the secretary’s attention were caught by the antics of one of the tumblers. The acrobat had been tossing coloured balls in the air, spinning about as he did so, and was now importuning one of the knights to give him a silver penny to include in his display of dexterity. Amid shouts of encouragement from his companions, the knight reluctantly parted with the coin, whereupon the tumbler began to toss the balls again, deftly twisting the coin between his fingers as he did so. The exhibition ended with the acrobat throwing the coin into the air along with the balls and catching the penny on the point of his chin as the balls fell neatly into the palm of his hand. As his audience gave voice to their admiration, the performer suddenly flipped over backwards in a somersault, and when he landed upright, the coin had disappeared. The knight who had contributed the silver penny let out a roar of disapproval and made a lunge for the acrobat but the tumbler danced nimbly out of the way and darted towards a heap of discarded apple cores lying on the table. Reaching into the pile, the tumbler extracted the coin and presented it to the knight with an exaggerated bow.

As the companions of the disgruntled knight broke up in laughter, Bascot was reminded of the silver penny Gianni had found and of the investigation Gerard Camville had asked him to make into the murder of Peter Brand. By now the mason would have told others of the clerk’s death and the news would have spread to Brand’s friends and acquaintances in Lincoln, perhaps even to any relatives the clerk had in Grantham. For them, the day of Christ’s Mass would forever be overshadowed by the murder of one they held dear. He sent up a silent prayer that God would, once again, assist him in his quest to discover the identity of a person who had committed the grisly crime of murder.

Six

WITHIN THE LARGE BAIL OF LINCOLN CASTLE THERE are two keeps; an impressive fortress used as the primary residence of Gerard Camville and Nicolaa de la Haye and an older, much smaller, stone tower housing the armoury at ground level and a few sleeping chambers above. Bascot and Gianni shared a room at the top of the older keep and the next morning, as the cathedral bells rang out the hour of Prime, the Templar awoke and decided to make an early start on his investigation into Peter Brand’s murder. Gianni was still fast asleep, curled up in a ball on his straw pallet on the floor, and Bascot pushed his black leather eye patch into place before gently shaking the boy by the shoulder to waken him. After kneeling for a few moments in morning prayer, the pair put on their boots and cloaks and took coverings for their heads—Gianni a fur-lined bonnet he had been given by Ernulf, serjeant of the castle garrison, and Bascot the black quilted arming cap he wore under his helm. The pair then went down into the bail and across to the hall.

Few of the castle household were astir. The feast of Christ’s Mass had lasted late into the evening and everyone was suffering from tiredness and overindulgence in food and drink. The only sign of activity was in the hall where a few sleepy servants were gathering up all the scraps of food remaining from the festive meal. These leftovers would be placed in wicker panniers and taken to the nearby church where they would be given as alms to the poor in honour of St. Stephen, the martyr whose holy day was celebrated after that of Christ’s birth.

Since it was unlikely the morning meal would be served until all the food remnants had been bundled up, Bascot sent Gianni outside to the building that housed the kitchen to fetch some bread and cheese to break their fast while he went to the stables and ordered a horse to be saddled. As Gianni was excused from his duties in the scriptorium for the holy day, the Templar hoisted the boy up onto the pillion seat behind him and then guided his mount out of the bail. Before he went to the mint to speak to Brand’s employer, Bascot wanted to find Cerlo and ask the mason if anyone had been atop the cliff face in the days before the clerk had been murdered. If there had not been, it would have to be assumed that Brand or his killer had dropped the silver penny and Gerard Camville’s suspicion that a treasure trove might be involved in the slaying must be pursued.

The morning air was crisp, but the temperature had risen slightly and their cloaks provided enough warmth to feel no discomfort as they rode across Ermine Street and entered the grounds of the Minster. Only a small number of townspeople were on their way to attend early Mass at the cathedral and Bascot was able to trot quickly past them, through Priory Gate and out onto the road leading to the quarry. As they neared the stone pit, they could hear the sounds of men at work; the creak of the huge wheel affixed to the winch, the thud of stone blocks settling on the sledges and the shouts of men urging mules to their task of pulling the heavy conveyances. Although today was a holy day, not everyone was allowed to spend it at leisure, and it appeared that work was being carried out in the quarry as usual, perhaps to make up for the time lost while the pit had been shut down.

Passing the little track that led to the top of the cliff face, Bascot rode down Masons Row, heading for the buildings at the far end. He remembered passing them the day before when he had gone down into the quarry to view the clerk’s body—a small row of one-storey houses, a workshop and stables—and hoped he would be able to find someone in one of the buildings that could tell him Cerlo’s whereabouts.

Just as they were nearing the first of the houses, a man clad in a cloak of coarse wool came trudging up the road from the direction of the workshop. His head was covered with a peaked cap that had a square piece of leather attached to the back to protect his neck. All his clothes, as well as his face, were covered in a fine layer of stone dust. Slung over his shoulder was a bag of tools, an assortment of chisels and hammers, some of which were protruding from the top of the sack.

The Templar hailed the man as he drew near and asked for the mason. “I’m not sure where he is, lord,” was the reply. “I don’t work in the quarry; I just come to measure some pieces of stone in the workshop. But he might be at home.” The stone worker turned and pointed to the small row of dwellings. “All t’other lodgings are empty ’til the summer, but Cerlo lives all year round in the last one along.”

Bascot guided his mount to the dwelling that had been indicated, dismounted and, leaving Gianni to hold the reins of the horse, went up to the door of Cerlo’s house. Although it was small, the building was substantial in construction, with walls of stone and a roof of slate tiles. When Bascot knocked at the door, it was opened by a woman of mature years, with greying hair pulled tidily back under a linen coif and garbed in a dark blue gown. One of her hands was heavily bandaged and she held her arm awkwardly, resting it gingerly against her waist. Seeing the Templar badge on the shoulder of Bascot’s tunic, she quickly gave a curtsey of deference and, when he enquired after Cerlo, told him she was the mason’s wife and, if he would come inside, she would take him to her husband.

Cerlo was sitting at the back of the only room the dwelling possessed, a bowl of boiled wheat and a loaf of coarse rye bread on a small table in front of him. He jumped to his feet when Bascot entered and made haste to offer the Templar a stool and a cup of ale.

Bascot accepted the ale, but not the seat, and said, “I have come to ask if you know whether any of the quarrymen have been working atop the cliff face in the last two weeks or so, or if there have been any visitors to the site during that time who walked along there.”

Cerlo’s face registered surprise at the question and he pondered it for a moment before he replied. “There are a few masons from the town that come to buy stone, but I don’t recollect any having been here since afore Michaelmas. As to the quarrymen, ’tis only when there’s need to make a fresh breach in the west face they have cause to go up there, and we haven’t done any cutting on that side since summer. We do keep a few tools in the shack there, but it’s just a little way from the main road. They wouldn’t need to walk along the cliff top to get to it.”

Bascot nodded. The answer had been what he expected, but it dashed any hope the coin might have been dropped accidentally. The Templar could see Cerlo was wondering why the question had been asked, but Bascot did not enlighten him, merely thanked the mason for his time and the ale, and left the house.

Hoping information would be more forthcoming at Brand’s place of employment, Bascot and Gianni retraced their earlier passage through the Minster to Ermine Street and turned south towards the town. Once through Bailgate, the huge portal that separated the castle and cathedral from the rest of Lincoln, the Templar was careful to guide his mount slowly along the slippery incline on the other side of the massive arch—aptly named Steep Hill—and onto the main street of Mikelgate. Gerard Camville had said the moneyer, Helias de Stow, lived in a house next to the mint, which was situated in the lower reaches of town near the church of St. Mary Crackpole.

The streets were sparsely populated; most of the wooden shutters that protected the fronts of the shops were fastened shut and the fowl and flesh markets closed. It did not take Bascot long to ride down the main thoroughfare and reach the turn he needed.

As the Templar guided his horse towards de Stow’s house, he had to thread his way through a group of people queuing for alms outside St. Mary Crackpole church. It was an odd name for a house of God but the latter part of the name was derived from a corruption of the Old Norse words
kraka
for a water-crake and
pol
for a pool, because of the birds that had inhabited a large pond originally on the site. Most of the people outside the little church were women with young children, but there were a few men amongst them, all clad in clothes that were threadbare and did not afford much protection against the stiff breeze that had suddenly arisen. Some of the younger children were grizzling and many of the women had expressions of stoic fortitude on their careworn faces.

Just beyond the church gate and on the opposite side of the street was the mint, a strongly fortified building adjoining the exchange where Walter Legerton carried out his work. De Stow’s house was a sturdy stone-walled building of three storeys on the other side, and separated from the mint by a narrow passageway.

Bascot tied the reins of his horse to a hitching rail in front of the moneyer’s house, went up to the door and rapped on it. A young maidservant with a solemn expression answered his knock. When asked to inform her master of Bascot’s presence, she sniffed loudly, then nodded and led the Templar inside and to an inner door just off the entryway. Opening it, she announced the visitor’s name, and motioned for Bascot to go in.