The Alehouse Murders (21 page)

So saying, she rose from her seat, tired of the subject and the wrangling that had accompanied it, but conscious also of the courtesy due her guests. “I have no doubt we can all do with a brief rest before the evening meal. There are chambers above that you may consider your own while you are in Lincoln and my servants are at your bidding.”

Ailwin and Magnus sighed with relief at the dismissal, and Conal assisted his great-aunt to her feet and helped her down the two shallow stairs to the floor of the hall. As they passed Bascot, the old lady paused. “You are a man of honour, Templar, I think. It would please me if, when you have finished your duties for the day, you would attend me. It might prove profitable for us to have speech together on this matter.”

Bascot had been amused by the manner in which Hilde had spoken to the others for, although haughty, she had comported herself with courage and a keen perception. And, he surmised, she was driven by an honest intent that was laudable. Her request to him had been couched in a more conciliatory fashion and he was intrigued by her wish to speak to him privately. He decided to humour her and nodded politely; assuring her he would do as she wished. Gianni, now standing beside him, stared with fascination at the silver raven’s head on the top of her cane as, leaning heavily on Conal’s arm, Hilde went slowly from the hall.

 

It was late in the evening before Bascot began the ascent up the stairs to the chamber where Lady Hilde awaited him. The Templar was tired and his leg ached from the riding he had done that morning, and also from his walk to the priory that afternoon after he had left the company in the hall. The purpose of his visit had been to see if the priest, Father Anselm, was showing any signs of recovery. Brother Jehan led him to the injured man’s bed, explaining that his patient had still not regained consciousness and from lack of any sustenance except for a few mouthfuls of honeyed wine dribbled into his mouth, was likely to remain so until death should take him.

“It is a strange irony that his wound has finally begun to heal,” the infirmarian said. “It is almost as though he remains unconscious of his own choosing.”

Bascot looked down on the face of the priest. It was peaceful, smooth and unlined in repose. The Templar had judged him to be a man just a few years older than himself, but lack of food had brought a gauntness to his features that made Anselm seem closer to middle age. His hands lay one on either side of him, resting on the thick woollen blanket that served as a cover, the fingers long and sensitive. On the priest’s brow dark hair curled thickly, but his eye sockets were sunken in deep shadows. Beneath the blanket his chest rose and fell in shallow movement. What hidden failing, Bascot wondered, had prompted Anselm to don a hair shirt beneath his vestments? Was it a penance for the commission of a sin or for the pleasure of an imaginary one? Had it anything to do with the murders in the alehouse?

“Were you acquainted with Father Anselm before this incident?” Bascot asked Brother Jehan.

The infirmarian shook his head slightly. “I have spoken with him but twice, and that is all,” he said. “He is only recently come to Lincoln, arriving here some two years ago. Before that he was in Canterbury, I believe.”

“And the times that you saw him, did he make mention of anything that was troubling him? Any problems he was having in his new parish, perhaps?”

Brother Jehan gave him an uncertain look, as though asking the reason for the Templar’s questions. “I am searching for an explanation as to why he was stabbed, Brother,” Bascot said. “I had thought it to be connected to the murders in the alehouse near the church where he officiated. But I could be wrong. It might be completely unrelated, the cause instead to be found in some personal matter, even something from his past. But his injury and his death, if it comes, are just as deserving of inquiry as those of the unfortunates found on the alehouse floor. I would discover the identity of the culprit, if I can. But to do that, I need to know more about Anselm. Can you help me?”

Jehan gave the matter a few moments thought before he answered. “It is not likely that I can for, as I said, I was not often in his company. But I will tell you the little that I know.” The infirmarian cast a brief look at his patient before he continued. “The first occasion that I met Anselm was not long after he arrived in Lincoln. A fellow cleric had advised him to enquire of me if I had a remedy for a persistent rash that had appeared on his lower extremities. He seemed to me, at that time, to be a man who was distracted, as though his thoughts were far away from his surroundings. I did not pay his demeanour much mind. It is not unusual for removal to a new parish, especially one so far from a place he might have come to regard as his home, to be unsettling for a priest. I gave him a salve to use on the rash and he left. I did not see him again until some time later.”

Bascot noted that a frown had appeared on the infirmarian’s careworn face as he had spoken the last words, as though the second meeting had not been as unremarkable as the first. “And when was that, Brother?” he prompted.

As Bascot spoke, Anselm stirred on the cot. He was still deep in unconsciousness, but his limbs had suddenly become restless, and his fingers began to twitch with movement. Brother Jehan immediately leaned over him, taking a moistened cloth from a bowl of water on a nearby stool and gently dabbing Anselm’s forehead, murmuring soothing words as he did so. Suddenly Anselm’s eyes flickered open, just for the briefest space, and he stared unseeingly past the two men at his bedside, seeming to focus his attention on a point beyond them. Then his eyelids closed, and he began to mutter. “Unclean. Unclean. Forever unclean.”

Jehan continued his ministrations and Anselm slowly subsided back into his heavy sleep and the murmuring ceased. Finally the infirmarian placed the cloth back in its receptacle and straightened the covering over his patient. When he had done, he leaned back from the bed and heaved a deep sigh.

“Always he is thus. Continually speaking of something, or someone, that is ‘Unclean.’ It is clear that his mind is greatly disturbed but there is no way of determining the cause of his anguish,” Jehan said heavily.

Bascot let a few brief moments of silence pass before he urged the elderly monk back to his recollections of the times he had met Anselm. “You were telling me, Brother, of the second time you met Father Anselm.”

Jehan nodded his head, unwilling to distract his attention from his patient. “Yes, I was,” he said finally. “The next occasion that I was in his company was just a few weeks before he was attacked. The rash on his legs had reappeared, more virulently this time. I suggested he try an unguent that I prepare from a plant commonly called Bee-Bread, which is red clover. He thanked me for it and went away. I never saw him again.”

“And the second time he came, did he still seem distracted?”

“No, he was more . . . how shall I put it . . . intense. As though a great matter was on his mind. Because of that it seemed to me that his blood might be out of balance with the other humours in his body, possibly overheating. It is often the cause of an eruption on the skin. I suggested he go to a leech for bleeding, but he did not seem of a mind to take my advice. Barely paid it heed, in fact.”

“And you had no inkling of what was troubling him?”

Jehan shrugged. “I might be in error—that there was something amiss with him, I mean. Perhaps he had always been so. Or he may have been in the throes of an internal struggle with his conscience.” The infirmarian flicked a glance at Bascot. “You must be aware that many of us who take up the pledge to serve Christ often find the way long and hard. Thanks be to God that I have never found it so, but it is not uncommon.”

Bascot nodded his acknowledgement of the truth of the brother’s words, thinking of his own struggles as the infirmarian continued. “But I am not in a position to judge Anselm for I hardly knew him. Except . . .”

After a long pause, Bascot again had to prompt Jehan into speech and it was with reluctance that he explained the reason for his reticence. “What I am about to tell you is only hearsay, told to me by one of the more garrulous monks of our house. I know not of its veracity, or even if I should repeat it.” He smiled ruefully. “I berated the monk who told me, scolding him for the looseness of his tongue.”

“Unless the matter is pertinent to the attack on Anselm, or the murders in the alehouse, you have my assurance that it shall be kept between us two,” Bascot told him.

Jehan nodded. “Very well. It is only a small thing, but if it will help you in your quest, then it is my duty to relate it, I suppose.” He reached over and once more straightened Anselm’s cover before speaking. The stricken priest made no movement at his touch, still deep in senselessness. “It was said that Anselm was sent to Lincoln because some grave matter necessitated his removal from Canterbury. It was implied that he was in a disgrace of some sort, but for what, I do not know. The fact that he was wearing a hair shirt when he was stabbed is an indication that he was undergoing a heavy penance, but whether it was self-imposed or laid on him by his confessor . . . again, I do not know.”

Bascot thanked the infirmarian for his help, even though the information he had given brought little aid in discovering if the attack on Anselm was connected to the alehouse murders. Perhaps Bascot would never find the answers to the questions he was asking. If the priest died without regaining consciousness, it was quite possible his secrets would be taken with him into heaven.

Bascot ruminated on those secrets, if there were any, as he knocked on the door of the chamber that had been assigned to Lady Hilde.

The room was a small one, a narrow bed encircled with hangings set against one wall, a tiny clothespress and a low polished oak table. Hilde sat by the table in the one chair the chamber possessed. The elderly maidservant that had been in the hall was perched on a stool in the corner, sewing a rent in one of her mistress’ garments by the light of a thick candle. Beside her a straw pallet was neatly rolled, ready to be spread and used when her mistress should retire.

“You are well come, Templar,” Hilde said. “I have only a stool to offer for a seat, but there is a good wine I brought from home, if you will take a cup.”

Bascot accepted her offer and seated himself on the stool. The servant brought him wine. It was thin, but sweet, and he drank it gratefully, feeling its warmth drain some of the tiredness from his body.

“It is good, eh?” Hilde said, motioning for her servant to refill his cup. “It is made from damsons grown on the land left to Conal by his father. It is a small holding, but the soil is good and produces enough for the needs of the household.”

Conal’s great-aunt had discarded the close-fitting coif she had worn earlier that day, allowing her white hair to rest on her shoulder in one thick braid with only a light head-cloth for covering. She wore a loose gown of plain material, and no ornamentation of any kind. The open collar of the garment revealed her thin neck, the flesh softly wrinkled. But although her body seemed frail, there was still much strength of purpose in the straightness of her back and the gleam in her eyes.

Against the arm of her chair rested her cane, the silver raven’s head gleaming dully in the dim light. Hilde saw Bascot glance at it and smoothed the great beak with her finger. “This staff is all the wealth I have ever had. It belonged to my father, commissioned by him when a battle wound made walking difficult.” Her eyes misted at the remembrance. “My father had only two children, my brother and myself. My brother was a sickly youth, but gentle natured and I loved him. He lived just long enough to sire a son, Conal’s father Leif, before he died. And then Leif was taken too, leaving only one small boy to carry on our family name. The grief of his losses killed my father, and I vowed on his deathbed that I would look after Conal as he would have done if he had lived.”

She gave Bascot a direct look. “I have never married, Templar. I was neither comely enough nor had sufficient dower to interest any but the most niggardly of suitors. But I was never sorry, for I had Conal. And he has more than justified my love for him. I hope I will not fail him now.”

With her customary directness, she turned the conversation away from herself and to the reason she had asked Bascot to come to her chamber. “This is a sad business, Templar, and I hope it will be handled with dispatch. That is why I have asked you to come here tonight. Whoever killed those people, I am convinced—nay, I know—it was not Conal, nor Sybil. It seems to me that the quickest way to prove their innocence is to find out who is guilty. If the deed were done to pave a clear way to Philip de Kyme’s inheritance, then the killer has rid himself of both the base-born heir and Conal by his actions. I have a feeling that is where the search should be made, among those who will profit by these deaths, and I would like to offer you my assistance, if you will have it. I have lived near Lincoln all my life and have knowledge of most of the members of de Kyme’s family and their history. If you would be willing to tell me what evidence you have gathered, it may be that I can give you some insight into who would have the motive, and the opportunity, to have committed this cowardly act.”

Lady Hilde spoke, as she had in the hall, in a blunt fashion. Bascot considered her offer. She had a sharp mind, of that Bascot was sure, and she also had what he did not, knowledge of the background and character of each of the people involved. He was also confident that, apart from her conviction that Conal was innocent, she would give him what information she possessed in an unbiased manner, a pleasant prospect after the frustrating attempts at extracting details from the alewife and Isaac, the Jew. He signalled for his wine cup to be refilled and ruminated for a few moments before making a decision.

“I think your opinions might be useful, lady,” he said at last. “And a recounting of the facts that have been discovered thus far may assist me in marshalling my own thoughts into a more coherent order.” Taking a deep draught from his wine cup he then told her all that had happened since that morning just a scant few days before when he and Ernulf had gone to examine the bodies on the alehouse floor.