The Alehouse Murders (16 page)

The gate into the back lane opened and Agnes saw the tubby figure of her neighbour, Goscelin, come into the yard. He was a baker who had his premises on the same street as her own. She smiled to herself as he came forward and deferentially asked how she was faring. Goscelin had always been friendly—theirs were reciprocal crafts after all, with his grain and her ale-brewed yeast—but he had shown a rare concern as soon as he had learned that Wat was dead, even offering one of his sons to spell Will in giving her protection. He was a prosperous man, was Goscelin, and a widower for some twelve months since the death of his wife from a fever. Agnes murmured a prayer under her breath asking God for forgiveness for her flightiness, then set her most winsome smile on her face as she returned the baker’s greeting.

Jennet had been right. Wat had been no good husband to her. Agnes had realised that on the last day that Wat had been alive when he had kicked her for pestering him with questions about why she had to stay clear of the yard. Surreptitiously she rubbed the spot on her thigh where his boot had made a great purple bruise. Well, there would be no more of that now, thanks be to God.

She told Goscelin that she was feeling much better and regarded the baker closely under cover of what she hoped was a demure glance. He had a kind face, ruddy with the heat from his ovens, and a mouth that curved easily when he smiled. It was reputed he had treated his wife well while she was alive and had himself cared for her most tenderly when she had been taken ill. He also had three strong young sons, one of whom he was now offering once again as company and protection. There would be no shortage of hands to do the heavy work in any household of his. Yes, Goscelin would make a much better husband than Wat and it was plain that, once her bereavement was over, he would not cease his attentions to her. If she wanted the baker, she could have him. It was a thought which had comforted her often in the last two days.

Ernulf did not bother to knock on the door of Brunner’s stewe-house; he kicked it in instead. As the door crashed wide on its hinges the serjeant told the two men-at-arms he had brought with him to wait outside while he went in to find his quarry.

At the top of the stairs Ernulf could hear the rustling of the leather curtains that covered the entrances to the girls’ cubicles and a muttered oath or two amongst the customers as the noise of his arrival disturbed the business of the bawdy house. Drawing his sword, Ernulf next put his foot to the door that led into Brunner’s private chamber. The door swung open to reveal an empty room, the bed rumpled and filthy covers askew. A leather jack of wine lay on its side amongst the dirty rushes on the floor, drained of its contents. There were no clothes hanging from the peg behind the door, and the small ironbound chest that he had noticed in a corner when he and Bascot had last been here stood with the lid flung back to reveal an empty interior. Ernulf went back into the hallway and, taking the steps two at a time, roared out a question at the harlots now gathered in a fearful group at the top.

“Where is Brunner?” he demanded, directing his words at the oldest of the bawds, a woman of some probable thirty years, although she looked a score more.

“He isn’t here,” the harlot replied, trying to frame her words with some degree of dignity despite clutching desperately at the soiled and stained wrap which was all that covered her skinny frame. Behind her Ernulf could see her customer’s alarmed eyes, peeking from behind the curtain of her cubicle.

“That isn’t what I asked you,” Ernulf said patiently, “I asked you
where
he was. I can see he isn’t here for myself.”

“I don’t know, serjeant, and that’s the truth. Nor do any of us,” the bawd replied, looking to the other harlots for confirmation, which they all gave with much nodding of their heads. “He was here early this morning—showing his usual cheery face,” she added with a sneer. “Then he left. Took young Gillie with him, though I reckon she didn’t want to go from the argument we heard between them, but she went just the same. He yelled up to me that he’d be back for any silver we owed him for last night’s work and that he’d have the hide off of any of us that tried to cheat him, then slammed out the door. Looked worried, I’m glad to say, God rot his soul.”

Again there was more nodding of heads from the other bawds as they agreed with her words, especially the last.

“Are you sure he didn’t give any indication of where he was going?” Ernulf persisted.

“None,” said the older bawd, then she gave a sly giggle. “Perhaps he knew you was coming, serjeant. Didn’t fancy your company maybe, although, speaking for myself, I’d be right pleased to see you here anytime.” She winked at him. “For as long as you like,” she added with a knowing grin. “Just ask for Maud.”

The other harlots tittered and Ernulf threw a smile back to the one who had made the invitation. “I might find it on my way to pass here again,” he said easily, “but it’ll have to wait until I find Brunner. If he comes back, I want to know. Is that lass your servant?” He pointed to a slip of a girl about nine or ten years of age who was cowering at the edge of the group.

“That’s my daughter,” Maud replied. “She’s too young yet to earn her keep with the rest of us, so she clears out the slops and cooks our meals.”

“Then send her to the castle if you have word of Brunner. Just come to the gate, lass,” he said to the girl, “and tell the sentry that Ernulf sent you. Can you remember that?”

The girl nodded, her eyes stretched wide with awe at being entrusted with such an important task.

“What’s Brunner done, serjeant?” called out one of the bawds. “Enticed a castle wench away from your bed, has he?”

Again there was laughter, but Ernulf did not join in. “No, he hasn’t. This time he’s gone too far with his lies. I want him, and I’ll have him. And I’ll be just as hard on any that help him. Remember that if any of you are tempted not to do as I ask if, and when, he comes back.”

The harlots fell silent as they saw the gravity of Ernulf’s expression. They were still quiet as he went out the door and closed it behind him. One of the men-at-arms looked at Ernulf hopefully. “Any luck, serjeant?”

“No. He’s gone. And taken the girl with him. But I’ll find him if I have to search every ramshackle hovel in Butwerk. We know the tale the young bawd told of meeting the dead girl on the road was a lie. The girl was the wife of Philip de Kyme’s illegitimate son and was travelling with her husband, who was most definitely not a mason here in Lincoln. And it was Brunner put the bawd up to telling such a falsehood, I’ll warrant. When I find him he’ll tell me the reason why.” He flexed the strong fingers of his right hand into a fist. “I hope he’ll be reluctant to talk. It would give me great pleasure if there was a need to persuade him.”

 

Father Anselm was still in the throes of fever. His wound had suppurated despite Brother Jehan’s application of a marigold poultice and it looked as though the poison would kill him. The injured man had never regained full consciousness since they had brought him to the priory nor, even in his delirium, had he uttered any word that would give a hint as to his attacker. All he had said, over and over again, was one word—“Unclean.” The brothers who were looking after him were not sure what he meant. It could have referred to his wound, or perhaps the hair shirt he had been wearing. There was even a possibility that he felt, deep in his delirium, the imminence of his death and was concerned that he was not able to be shriven and his soul cleansed of sin. He was never left alone, and prayers importuning for his recovery were said at every Mass. As the heat of the day grew Brother Jehan ordered his patient bathed with water cooled in the deep recesses of the priory’s buttery. “It is all we can do for him now,” Jehan said to the novice who was his assistant. “His fate is in the hands of God.”

B
ASCOT’S THOUGHTS WERE SCATTERED AND UNSETTLED after he left the solar. And he was angry. Questioning Sybil de Kyme and Conal had been humiliating for them, embarrassing for him. He knew he was ill-suited to the role of inquisitor. All those years of being subjected to the will of his Saracen captors had made him very reluctant to expose any other person to an invasion of their privacy, even if such an intrusion was sanctioned by the sheriff and his wife. But such interrogations were justified, a necessary task that must be performed in order to try and find the murderer of those innocents in the alehouse, especially the unborn babe. It seemed to him that their souls were crying out for vengeance. His discomfiture—and that of Sybil and Conal—was of little measure when set beside the heinous act that had been perpetrated.

He motioned for Gianni to accompany him and walked across the bailey in the direction of the stables. Earlier, it had been his intention to ride out to Philip de Kyme’s manor and talk to both the baron and his
secretarius
, William Scothern, and perhaps have a look at the letters from the dead boy’s mother. Now, instead, he felt a need to be away from the whole question of who had murdered the victims in the alehouse, and for a brief space put aside the task which Nicolaa de la Haye had given him so that he might perhaps be able to bring a semblance of order to the disquiet of his mind.

Crossing the crowded bailey he stopped briefly at the barracks to enquire if Ernulf had been successful in his trip to Butwerk to bring in the stewe-holder, Brunner. Relieved at being told that the serjeant had not yet returned, he walked through the huge gate that was the eastern entry into the castle grounds and crossed the wooden bridge leading down to street level.

Lincoln had resumed the frenzied activity that had begun during the opening parade as the business of the fair entered its second day. Across from the castle the crowds were thick in the precincts of the cathedral and as Bascot passed through Bailgate and started to walk down Steep Hill, he was hard-pressed to push through the crowds of people gathered about stalls and the open fronts of shops. There were entertainers everywhere; strolling players, performing dogs, jugglers, even a shambling old bear being baited by two or three mangy dogs in front of St. Michael’s church. The bear, its muzzle haltered by a leather snaffle, was lackadaisical in its response to the wary bravado of its attackers, ignoring the snapping and snarling of its tormentors and raising a paw only when one of the dogs would overcome fear and make a dash towards him. The crowd was heckling the bearward, offering to find him a pig or a goat as replacement for his bear, yelling that even a goose would be superior as an adversary for the dogs. Bascot edged past the throng while Gianni, as usual, kept pace at his right hand. The boy knew his master’s blindness on that side could make him unaware of an imminent collision with a passerby or the encroachment of a nimble-handed thief. He had also noticed Bascot’s dark mood and wanted to prevent any such upset from deepening it.

As they pushed their way down the sharp incline Bascot cursed his ankle, which had begun to ache. The air was filled with the cries of vendors, the raucous hum of voices raised to be heard above the din and the acrid aroma of human sweat, animal dung and fish guts. This last was from High Market on Spring Hill, a winding street that led off Steep Hill where the fishmongers of Lincoln kept their stalls. In an attempt to escape the press of people Bascot veered off the main thoroughfare, going past the Drapery where the cloth merchants and their customers milled like bees around a hive, and across the top of Parchmingate into the comparative quiet of Hungate. This street led to an intersection with Brancegate, a larger street that crossed the main road of Mikelgate. Since Hungate was nearer the city wall and the residents were mainly merchants selling less expensive items such as household implements, blankets and napery, it was not as congested as the streets they had left behind. Most of the items here would not attract those with a lot of silver to spend and so there were fewer street hawkers and the shop owners had, in the main part, put up the shutters over the casements of the bottom floor of their houses and were displaying their wares by spreading them over a counter just inside the opening. To guard against thieving, the merchant would usually stand outside on the street while a member of his family watched from within.

Many of the shops had a variety of goods for sale since most of the houses were of three stories and occupied on each level by a different family, or two or three, engaged in varying occupations. Such houses had combined their wares, laying them out carefully side by side, and took turns at guarding and selling. The customers meandering down this street were of a less pretentious sort, clothed in sober garments of russet brown or dark green, the women with plain white coifs covering their hair and the men with simple leather caps on their heads. They inspected the goods carefully, the women judiciously fingering small cloths for wrapping cheese or making swaddling bands while their husbands carefully examined the iron that had been used in making nails or carpentry tools for flaws.

To ease the ache in his ankle, Bascot stopped underneath the cloth awning of a leather worker. There were several pairs of soft shoes laid out on the counter along with a few purses and belts. Nearby, a young man clad in a leather apron was punching holes in pieces of leather with an awl. When Bascot approached, he shoved his work into a large pocket in the front of his apron and gave his prospective customer a smile. His long yellow teeth and narrow face gave him a horselike appearance and his voice, when he spoke, was also similar to the high-pitched neighing of a steed, rising and falling in quavering tones. Bascot would not have been surprised if he had whinnied in accompaniment.

“Some fine pieces I’ve got here, sir,” he said deferentially, glancing obliquely at Bascot’s Templar badge. “And belts and wrist-guards made to your order, if you wish.”

Bascot gave him a nod in response, then picked up a pair of shoes and idly examined them. Behind the counter stood a woman, older, with teeth curved in the same equine smile as the young man’s. She bobbed her head at Bascot in courtesy, then spoke in a voice that was surprisingly sweet in contrast to the lad’s. “We make good boots, too, sir. My husband could make you a pair that would serve you far better than those you’re wearing. Could even pad the left one to ease your pain.”