Shroud of Dishonour (23 page)

The bailiff and his constable went to stand beside Roget, leaving Sven and Joan standing below the dais, Askil and Dunny behind them. All were dressed in a sober manner. Joan was clad in a gown of dark grey topped with an old-fashioned Saxon head rail similar to the one she had worn on the day Bascot and Roget had first met her in Grimsby, this time of a heavier material that almost completely covered her hair and was fastened in place about her forehead by a plain band of dark blue. Sven’s tunic was of good quality material and of a red so dark it was almost black, while the two seamen wore hose and tunics of russet brown that had been patched in places. This time not only Askil’s hair, but also Dunny’s, was tied back with a leather thong and the younger sailor’s previously greasy locks appeared to have been recently washed. Camville let them wait for a moment before he spoke.

“Bailiff Thorson informs me that you told Captain Roget and Sir Bascot a pack of lies when they were in Grimsby. You have until I drink this cup of wine to explain yourselves to my satisfaction. If you do not, you will be taken to the castle gaol and stay there at my pleasure.”

Sven flinched at the sheriff’s threat, but his wife did not show any fear. She stepped forward a pace and spoke in the icy tones Bascot remembered so well from the day he and Roget had questioned her in her home.

“The only lie my husband told was of our purpose in going to Hull,” she said steadily, her hands loosely clasped in front of her and her demeanour showing no sign of agitation. “We were, as Sven said, absent from Grimsby for some ten days but none of us have any involvement in the murder of the prostitutes.”

Placing her hand on the sheriff’s arm to forestall further speech, Nicolaa de la Haye now leaned forward and spoke in measured tones to Sven’s wife. It was a tactic she often employed when Camville’s choler was rising, her own calm authority a perfect foil to her husband’s irascibility. And it was deceptive, for Nicolaa was just as implacable as her husband when it came to the pursuit of justice. “And why were you unwilling to tell my husband’s officer the true reason you went to the port?”

A brief frisson of relief, quickly masked, crossed Joan’s features as she turned to speak to the seemingly mild-mannered castellan. “It was because of the Templar’s presence, lady.” She gestured behind her at the two sailors. “Dunny, one of the seamen my brother Robert employed, did not tell all that he knew of the night my brother was killed in Acre. Before the fight began between Robert and the knight who stabbed him, they stood for a little time in conversation and mention was made that they had previously been in each other’s company in Hull, and that the knight was from Lincolnshire. My husband and I did go to the port to speak to some of Robert’s customers but Sven also went to some of the alehouses my brother patronised to see if anyone knew the name of the knight. We thought that if we could find out who he was …”

Camville’s temper snapped at the glib recital. Rising from his seat he strode down from the dais and went to stand in front of Joan. “And what would it profit you to know the name of this knight?”

Joan recoiled slightly at the suddenness of the sheriff’s attack but managed to answer steadily. “Then, lord sheriff, we would have reported it to you. As far as we know, the knight who killed Robert has not been apprehended, but even if he is, he would merely be expelled from the Templar Order, not hung as he deserves. If he returned to Lincolnshire after his expulsion, he could resume his former life with ease and none would be the wiser. But, if you knew of it, you could charge him with the crime and see that he paid the full penalty. The reason we did not want Sir Bascot to learn of our purpose is because it is well-known how Templars support each other, and we feared he might give my brother’s murderer warning.”

“And if this knight—whose name you do not know—does not return to England, but has stayed in Outremer, what then?” Camville demanded.

“It was implied by the conversation Dunny overheard that the man who killed my brother is a knight of Lincolnshire. If so, he will have family here.” Joan’s voice rang with resolution as she gave vent to outrage that had been too long suppressed. “Even if he does not return, if we learn his identity then we can publically denounce him. Let his relatives suffer, as I have done, for his evil act. It will not compensate my grief, but it will go a long way to alleviate it.”

Bascot noticed that Askil was watching Joan with undisguised admiration in his eyes. There could be no doubt that the sailor, as Thorson had judged, was in love with her. How far would such devotion drive a man? Would Askil commit murder if Joan asked it of him? The Templar thought it entirely possible. Sven, too, seemed in thrall to his handsome wife. It was evident that this scheme of discovering the identity of her brother’s murderer was of her making. Both her husband and Askil were merely following her direction, taking Dunny along in their wake.

Bascot switched his gaze to Joan and tried to assess the truth of her words. She had merely glanced at him as she had made her accusation against the Templar Order and her words had been charged with seeming sincerity. But, once again, he had the feeling she was masking her true purpose. He leaned forward and asked a question of his own.

“Now that you have made Sheriff Camville cognizant of your intent, mistress, you have no need to fear any complicity on my part in aiding the man who killed your brother. Tell us, did either you or your husband discover the name of the guilty knight?”

“No, we did not,” she replied coolly. “Our journey was in vain.”

“As is the reason for holding this meeting,” Camville said heatedly. “I am trying to find out who murdered two women and attacked another last night in the town. Your futile search is a distraction and wasting time that I, and my men, could put to better use. You will stay in Lincoln until I receive an answer to the message I sent to Hull. I will allow you to remain in the lodgings you have secured, but Bailiff Thorson will keep watch over all of you.”

With that, Camville strode to the back of the hall and called loudly for Eudo. When the steward appeared, the sheriff gave him an order to have some wine sent up to his private chamber and left the hall. Lady Nicolaa rose from her chair and Bascot did the same.

“You have heard my husband’s judgement,” the castellan said to Sven and Joan Grimson. “If you are wise, you will obey his command and not cause him further irritation.”

As the pair departed, the two seamen trailing behind them in a disconsolate fashion, Bascot took care to notice the manner in which each of them walked. If their story was a cover for a more nefarious purpose, they could still be guilty of the murder of the two prostitutes and the attack on Terese. A glance at Roget told the Templar that the captain was also watching all of the party, including Joan, carefully. But there was no hesitation in the steps of any. Sven paced the length of the hall without a falter in his long-legged stride, and Joan glided over the rushes on the floor of the hall with her head held high. The two sailors followed them with the swaying gait common to seamen. Whatever any of them might be guilty of, it seemed it had not been one of them that had attacked the former prostitute in the street outside Verlain’s bawdy house.

B
ASCOTAND
R
OGET DECIDED THATIT WASSTILL EARLY ENOUGH for them to make the trip to the Roulan property at Ingham. The village was situated just a little over eight miles northwest of Lincoln, a distance that would take them barely an hour on horseback. As they rode out of the bail, Roget asked Bascot what he thought of Joan Grimson’s story about the reason she and her husband had gone to Hull.

“It seems to me,” Bascot said, “that she is lying by omission. Just as we were not told all the facts in the first tale Sven gave us, there are still some details that have been left out.”

Roget snorted his agreement. “I do not believe that if they had discovered the name of the Templar that killed her brother, she would have meekly told the sheriff about him. If the knight has returned to Lincolnshire, she would have ensured he was dead before she denounced him. She is a determined woman, that one, and does not intend to be thwarted.”

Bascot nodded. The Templar remembered the besotted look on Askil’s face as Joan had courageously faced Gerard Camville’s threat of imprisonment. The steersman would do anything to please her, Bascot was sure, even commit murder.

As the pair rode out onto Ermine Street and headed north, they passed many other travellers. Some were on foot—tinkers with packs slung on their shoulders, charcoal burners carrying sacks secured by a heavy band around their forehead, and the occasional tradesman walking alone, carrying a sack of tools. There was wheeled traffic too, a few small carts and a couple of men pushing barrows, along with a small number of affluent merchants on horseback. As they exited Lincoln through Newport Arch, they found a large dray laden high with sacks of grain in front of them. The iron shod wheels on the cart must have been new, for the metal glistened in the early summer sun but, as the wagon began its journey up the dusty road, grime began to film the shiny circles and within a few moments, their brightness started to become tarnished. The rhythmic glitter of the turning wheel was hypnotic and Bascot found his attention drawn to it as they overtook the wagon and passed it.

It was not long before they came to the turnoff for Ingham. As they slowed to ride onto the track, Roget gestured to the east, where the rolling terrain stretched northeast towards the Humber estuary. “If, as Bailiff Thorson suggested, Grimson’s two seamen did come down the Ancholme in a small skiff, we are not far from where their journey would have ended at Bishopbridge.”

Bascot turned his head so his sighted eye had a better view of the landscape. Sheep were scattered over the grassland, some partially hidden by the occasional clump of trees or bushes. There were many small villages in the area, and tracks would lead from all of them to join up with the highway, including Bishopbridge. It would not have taken the seamen many hours to walk to Lincoln, just as Thorson had said.

The path to Ingham was a dusty trail that led west towards the Trent River. Urging their horses into a trot, they rode down the track and through a small village. Beyond the hamlet the road ended, its terminus the large manor house owned by the Roulan family.

T
HE RESIDENCE WAS A SOLID STRUCTURE OF TWO STORIES ENCIRCLED by a stout fence of wooden palings. Nicolaa de la Haye had told them that after Jacques left to join the Templars, his father had died, and the eldest brother, Gilbert, had inherited the estate.

“The property mentioned in the document that Gianni was given to copy is not far from Ingham, near a village called Marton. It was part of the dower Gilbert’s mother brought to her husband on their marriage day,” Nicolaa had told them before they left. “Both Ingham and Marton are part of the demesne I inherited from my father, and held in fee, but it is the property at Ingham that brings in most of their revenue, mainly from sheep. Originally, Jacques was named as beneficiary of the Marton property in his mother’s will, but when he left to join the Templars, she changed the document and named the youngest brother, Herve, as the son that will inherit Marton after her death. Besides Gilbert and Herve, there is also a sister. I seem to recall her name is Julia.”

Nearly all of the Roulan family were inside the capacious hall of the manor house when Bascot and Roget were shown in by a manservant. The eldest brother, Gilbert, a man of about forty years of age with greying hair and weary eyes, was seated with two women at a large oak table in the middle of the room. Slumped in a chair beside an unlit fireplace was a younger man, the aquiline curve of his nose and set of his jaw enough like Gilbert’s to proclaim that he was the youngest brother, Herve. At his feet was a wine jug and in his hand a full cup. His mulish expression and slack jaw suggested he had been drinking for some time. Leaning against the far wall, alongside an open casement, was a man of an age somewhere between that of the two Roulan brothers. He, too, possessed the same beak of a nose as Gilbert and Herve, but the rest of his features were more softly cast. He stood with arms folded and a solemn expression on his countenance. The top half of his face was tanned to a copper hue, but the flesh about his mouth and chin was much paler, as though he had recently shaved off a beard. There were no servants present in the room and a faint aura of tension hung in the air, giving the impression that a heated argument had been in progress, which the arrival of Bascot and Roget had interrupted. When the servant announced the name of the visitors, Gilbert rose from his chair and came forward to greet them.

“The sheriff has sent us to ask you a few questions concerning the recent murders that have taken place in Lincoln town,” Roget told Gilbert when he enquired the reason for their presence.

A wary look came into Gilbert’s eyes, but he bade them be seated and directed the elder of the two women, who he introduced as his wife, Margaret, to bring wine for their guests. She was a few years younger than her husband and had a wan comeliness in her pale blue eyes and small shapely mouth. A few tendrils of blond hair showed at the rim of a linen coif which covered her head in a haphazard fashion, as though she had donned it hastily. Bringing cups from an open-faced cupboard at the end of the room, she poured a full measure in each and then set them before the two visitors.