Murder for Christ's Mass (24 page)

 

 

 

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, A MEAL FULLY AS SUMPTUOUS as the one served on the day of Christ’s Mass was placed before the company. Bascot sat at his customary seat among the household knights while Gianni stood behind him in attendance.

As on similar occasions over the holy days, tumblers were cavorting among the tables, spinning coloured balls as they turned somersaults, and musicians were playing softly at the back of the hall while a troubadour stood in front of the dais and sang a romantic ballad to the newly betrothed couple.

The Templar tried to enter into the happy spirit of the occasion and, while he was pleased that Richard and Eustachia seemed truly happy with each other, he could not keep his thoughts from the night he had just spent at the preceptory and his conversation with Emilius, the Order’s draper.

On his arrival at the enclave the day before, Bascot had met the supplicant knight, a young man named Hugh of Sturton, and spent some time in conversation with him before going to join the rest of the brothers in the refectory for the evening meal. The Templar had been favourably impressed with Sturton; the young knight’s desire to serve Christ seemed earnest and he comported himself in a seemly manner. As they ate in the silence demanded by the Order’s Rule, Sturton had listened attentively as a Templar priest read a passage from the Bible.

Afterwards, in the hour allowed for a period of recreation, the situation in Tomar was discussed and how it was vital that the attempted encroachment of the Mus lims into Portuguese Christian territory be stemmed. Emilius, who had spent some years in Portugal before being sent to Lincoln to fill the office of draper—a post which made him second-in-command to the preceptor and involved the important duty of ensuring all brothers in the enclave conformed to strict rules of dress and appearance—told the others a little of the history of the region.

The castle at Tomar had been built about thirty years before, on a grant of land given to the Templar Order by a member of the monarchy of Portugal, together with another stronghold twelve miles south at Almourol. The two fortresses formed the first line of defence against repeated infidel attacks from the south. Emilius related some of the atrocities the heathens had inflicted on Christian villagers in the area—babies impaled on the point of a sword, women raped, and men disembowelled and left to die a lingering and agonising death. As Bascot listened to the draper’s report, his heart flooded with anger.

His blood had cooled somewhat by the following morning when he attended the chapter meeting and listened to Sturton’s quiet but resolute responses to the questions put to him by d’Arderon, Emilius and himself, but the sentiment that fostered it had not dimmed. Senseless killing, whether perpetrated by an enemy on helpless villagers or by means of secret murder, always inflamed outrage in Bascot’s soul. It was God’s right, and His only, to take the life of another without just cause. By the time he returned to the castle, he decided he would not wait until the morrow to question Tasser again, but do so as soon as the betrothal celebration was over.

 

 

 

THE SILVERSMITH BORE THE FULL BRUNT OF THE Templar’s pent-up anger when Bascot went into the holding cell. Tasser was in an abject state; his cheeks were dark with days-old stubble and his fine clothes stained beyond cleansing. Confronted by the ice-cold gaze of the knight’s eye, he quailed in Bascot’s presence before the Templar spoke even one word.

“Sheriff Camville is out of patience with you, silversmith, and so am I,” Bascot said menacingly. “If you did not, as you claim, kill Brand and your apprentice, then you know who did. If you do not give me his name, you will stand in judgment of the murders in his place.”

“As God is my witness, lord, I do not know who it was. If I did, I would tell.” The silversmith was almost crying.

“You lie,” Bascot said and, stepping forward, grabbed Tasser by the front of his tunic and slammed him into the wall. The back of the silversmith’s head struck the hard stones with a sickening crunch and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“I am telling the truth, lord, I swear it,” he screamed as Bascot raised his arm and gave the prisoner the full force of a backhanded slap across the mouth. Blood gushed from Tasser’s mouth and he screamed with pain as Bascot released his grip and let the silversmith fall to the floor.

Bascot stepped back a pace, appalled by his own brutality. He had let the deadly sin of anger lead him into the very behaviour he decried in the infidel Moors. Never before had he struck an unarmed foe, nor used force on a man who, even if he had not been manacled, would be no match for Bascot’s youth and strength.

He was about to step forward and assist Tasser to his feet when the silversmith spoke, his words barely audible through the blood that welled from the split in his lower lip.

“I think . . . I think . . . Roger knew who killed Brand,” he mumbled.

Bascot willed himself to stillness. “How so?” he asked.

Tasser lifted eyes full of resignation. “Roger was following the clerk, at least . . . I think he was.” Raising the arm that was not manacled, Tasser dabbed at the blood on his chin with the filthy sleeve of his tunic. “It was the day after I bought the jewellery from Brand. The clerk was passing my shop and Roger . . . he made an excuse to leave his work. I saw him go after Brand, keeping a little distance behind him.” Tasser dabbed again at his mouth. “There were other times, too. Over the next couple of days, Roger disappeared for an hour or two and, in the evenings, he would return to his room sober instead of cupshotten. He was up to something . . . and I think it involved the clerk.”

“Did you ask him whether he was following Brand?”

The silversmith nodded. “He wouldn’t tell me if he was or not, just laid his finger aside of his nose in a knowing fashion and would say no more.”

“What about after Brand was killed? What made you think he had witnessed the murder?”

Tasser gave a sigh. “Because even before the clerk’s body was found, Roger knew he was dead. He told me I had better lock up the jewellery I had bought from Brand lest I be implicated in a serious crime. When I asked him what he was talking about, he said only that I had better pay heed to his warning. But even though I did as he said, it doesn’t look as though it was enough to save me, or him, from danger.”

 

 

 

THE TEMPLAR WAITED UNTIL LATER THAT EVENING, when the festivities were almost at an end, before he approached Gerard Camville and asked if he could have a few moments of private speech with him. The sheriff raised his eyebrows at the request, but excused himself from his guests and took Bascot upstairs to his chamber. He gave his undivided attention to Bascot’s words and, when the Templar finished speaking, began to pace.

“So it appears that Fardein saw the murder of Brand and was then murdered to ensure his silence.”

“I believe so, lord,” Bascot replied. “I think the apprentice, just like Tasser, was suspicious of the provenance of the jewellery the clerk brought to sell and wanted to find out if Brand had any more and, if so, where he had it stored. So he followed Brand hoping to confirm his supposition. What Fardein intended to do once he had uncovered the clerk’s secret, we shall never know. It may be he planned to make an offer to buy the additional valuables without involving Tasser or he could have simply intended to rob Brand. Whatever his purpose, since he knew the clerk was dead before his body was found, it seems certain Fardein must have seen the murder.”

“So you believe that whoever killed Brand also despatched the apprentice.”

“It seems logical.”

Camville paced the length of the room once or twice. “I agree,” he finally said. “But even though it gives us proof the two murders are linked, we still do not have the name of the perpetrator, so are no further forward.”

“We are now reasonably certain that at least three men were in the quarry on the night Brand was killed—the clerk, Fardein and the murderer,” Bascot said. “It seems inconceivable that no one saw at least one of them either entering the quarry or leaving it, and earlier today I recalled I may have missed a possible witness.”

“Go on,” Camville directed.

“When I went to the quarry on St. Stephen’s day, I met a stone worker who told me he did not work in the pit, but had been labouring in the workshop at the end of Masons Row. Cerlo assured me the quarry was deserted on the day the clerk was murdered, but the workshop does not fall within the quarry master’s jurisdiction and the mason may not have been aware of anyone at work in the building. There could have been someone there.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It is only a slim chance, lord, but one worth checking all the same. If one of the stone workers was coming up the road— as was the man I met on the day I went to see the mason—they may have seen the clerk’s killer near the city gate and be able to identify him.”

Camville nodded. “If there is the slightest chance of finding a witness, we must pursue it. Go and speak to Alexander, the master builder at the cathedral. He is in overall charge of all the stone workers, both in the church and the quarry. He will know if any of his men were in the workshop at that time.”

As the two men turned to leave the room, Bascot asked the sheriff’s intentions with regard to the silversmith. “I think, lord, Tasser has now told us all he knows. Do you wish to order his release?”

Camville had no need to ponder the question. “No,” he replied decisively. “Coroner Pinchbeck has returned to Lincoln and is among the guests in the hall. He heard about the murders and, earlier this evening, asked how my investigation was faring. I told him I believe the silversmith is responsible but that, as yet, I am still collecting evidence to substantiate the charge. Pinchbeck seemed satisfied to leave it at that for the moment but, if I release Tasser, he will ask why and I have no desire to enlighten him. The silversmith should have told us earlier about Fardein’s involvement with Brand. Since he did not, he has only himself to blame for the discomfort he is suffering.”

Twenty-four

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER GIANNI HAD GONE TO the scriptorium, Bascot ordered a mount saddled and rode to the cathedral. He felt cleansed of the anger that had engulfed him the day before, having knelt by the pallet in his bedchamber once Gianni was asleep and begged God’s forgiveness for his transgression, silently repeating the Confiteor in admission of his fault. Now, as he rode, he implored heaven to look favourably on his quest for a witness.

When he reached the church, he dismounted and walked up to the entrance. As he went through the huge portal, the soaring nave lay in front of him, and he genuflected at the marble font just inside the door. A stream of penitents was making its way to the chapel of St. John the Evangelist at the south end of the transept, where the body of Bishop Hugh of Lincoln had been interred in November of the year 1200. Many miracles had been reported by those who sought succour at the saintly bishop’s tomb, and the number of hopeful supplicants increased daily.

As Bascot stood there, searching for a cleric who could help him locate Alexander, a secondary—one of the young men in training to become a priest—came bustling past. Accosting him, the Templar asked for Alexander. Although the secondary was obviously in a hurry, he nonetheless stopped and answered the enquiry courteously, pointing to a narrow set of stairs just off the entryway. The stairs led upwards and were almost hidden from view of anyone coming into the great church.

“The builder is usually at work in a chamber above,” the young cleric replied. “If you go to the top of those stairs, you will find him in the room where plans of the cathedral are stored.”

Mounting the small staircase, Bascot came out onto a tiny landing cluttered with tools, coils of rope and empty leather buckets and saw an open door leading into a low ceilinged but capacious room. Voices came from inside, engaged in a discussion about the possibility that one of the gargoyles protecting the mouth of a waterspout at the western corner of the church was damaged.

“It may only be the trough that is blocked,” an authoritative voice said, “but I noticed water spilling down the sides from above the opening. If the stone surround has cracked in the recent cold weather, it will need repairing. Go up and inspect it, and let me know what you find. In the meantime, I will have two men examine the interior portion of the wall. There is leakage on the inside as well; I noticed it yesterday after the midday service was over. Now that the holy days are passed and repair work will not disturb the services, the archdeacon has given me permission to do what is necessary.”

Ducking through the low arch of the doorway, Bascot found two men inside, poring over a massive drawing on the floor. It was an extremely detailed outline of the cathedral walls, etched into a thin skin of lime plaster encased in a wooden frame and annotated with measurements of every elevation of the cathedral’s structure as well as the differing sizes of stone blocks used in the walls and pillars.