Shroud of Dishonour (27 page)

He held his breath as he let the essence of the dream carry him to further suppositions. Many people’s names indicated their appearance, but often it was a habit or possession, or their family’s role in society. His own name—de Marins—denoted, in French, a maritime connection because his family had always held a castle protecting the seashore. Robert Scallion’s name was derived from the onions in which his sire and grandsire, and Robert himself, had traded. Was it the same for the Roulans? Had the wanderlust that seemed an integral part of Jacques’ character been inherited from forbears whose inclination to rove had earned them their name? It could be so—rolling wheels meant travelling and that was certainly what Jacques had done. Herve had said his brother had “roamed far and wide to take his pleasure.” And the patron saint of travellers was St. Christopher, the very image Agnes had seen. It would be an obvious saint for a family with such a cognomen to adopt. Were these the connections that the dream had been attempting to convey?

If he accepted the validity of the thought, he must reconsider Julia and Savaric as suspects even though they had not been seen in Lincoln during the pertinent times. Sitting completely still and silent in the dark, that is what he did. Was it possible that one, or both of these two people, had embarked on a horrific plan of extracting revenge for the death of Jacques in the Holy Land? Mentally, he shook his head in negation. The idea was implausible. Jacques had not been killed by either a harlot or a Templar brother. He had not even died in battle, but simply from a wound inflicted by his horse, an injury that could happen to a man in any walk of life, and had no connection with either prostitutes or the Templar Order. Why would either of them, if they felt the need to expunge their grief, commit these murders as a means of doing it? But he could not dismiss the idea, it was the only lead he had. Doggedly he carried on, thinking carefully back over Dunny’s description of the dead knight.

He recalled the sailor describing Jacques’ apparel and the conversation with Robert Scallion that had evolved into an argument with such deadly consequences for the boat owner. He then reviewed the visit he and Roget had made to the Roulan manor house and what had been said by the members of Jacques’ family. One of the most memorable instances was how Julia had reacted when the drunken Herve had slighted his brother’s character. What had she said? “Have you no compassion for our brother? I wish it was you who suffered—” Gilbert had cut his sister off at that point, interrupting her flow of speech. In retrospect, Bascot thought she seemed to speak of Jacques as though he was still alive, but both Savaric and Gilbert had said he was dead. Had they been telling the truth? Had Jacques, as Joan Grimson believed, escaped retribution for the crime of killing Robert Scallion and returned to England? Was he even now hidden somewhere at Ingham, or in the deserted building the Haye bailiff had spoken of at Marton, shielded from the outside world by the rest of his family? If so, it was a plan doomed to failure. He could not stay hidden indefinitely. Sooner or later he would be seen, if only by a servant, and the news would spread. When that happened, and because of Joan Grimson’s accusation, he would eventually either be brought to answer for his crime or, at the very least, shunned by everyone who knew him.

But the Roulan grief had appeared too intense for it to be false. There had been real sorrow mixed with the anger in Julia’s voice as she had castigated Herve. It could not be doubted that, as his family asserted, Jacques was dead.

Bascot leaned back against the wall behind the wooden block on which he sat, trying to find a comfortable position that might help compose his leaping thoughts. As he did so, his hand fell on the blacksmith’s gloves and apron that lay on top of the anvil beside him. Almost simultaneously, he dislodged some wooden planks that had been laid to rest vertically between two nails hammered into the wall. They fell with a loud cracking noise onto the stone of the floor, reminding Bascot of a sound he had heard recently. The small incident caused his thoughts to coalesce and, with a simplicity that now seemed devastatingly obvious, the last piece of the puzzle surrounding the murders fell into place.

He stood up quickly, ignoring the sentry who had been alerted by the noise of the falling wood and was coming across the training ground to investigate. With haste, the Templar retraced his steps to the dormitory, intent on rousing d’Arderon.

B
ARELY AN HOUR LATER,
B
ASCOT AND
E
MILIUS WERE CROSSING the Fossdyke and riding to Torksey, beyond which lay the Roulan property at Marton. After Preceptor d’Arderon had listened to Bascot’s conclusion of who had murdered the harlots, and why, he had readily given permission for the Templar to prove his theory. D’Arderon had, however, sent for the draper, insisting Bascot take Emilius with him.

“If what you propose is true, the responsibility lies with us, as Templars, to arrest this man, and you will need another brother with you to bear witness,” d’Arderon had said.

Emilius was more than willing to go. “It is, as you say, Preceptor, our duty, for even though this man is no longer a brother, it must be publically shown that the Order would never have conspired to shield him from punishment for his evil actions.”

Bascot had then stressed the need for haste. “We must leave straightaway, Preceptor,” he said. “It may be that because Roget and I went to Ingham yesterday, the family has been alerted. If so, they may take steps to ensure he is gone from Lincoln. The quicker we get to Marton, the better. It may already be too late, but if we get there before anyone is astir, we may just be in time.”

D’Arderon nodded. “Go now. I will send a message to Camville immediately. It should not be too long before he sends some of his men-at-arms to follow you.”

Not a quarter of an hour later, Bascot and Emilius were astride mounts and riding through the gates of the enclave. They had taken only a scant few moments to arm themselves and don conical helms. To have taken the time to garb themselves in hauberks and hoods of mail would have used up precious minutes that Bascot was not sure they could afford. The preceptor’s final words rang in their ears as they put spurs to their mounts. “May God strengthen your purpose,” he said. Both Templar brothers fervently hoped his prayer would be heard.

Dawn had already broken and the sun had started on its skyward path by the time they reached Torksey. Marton lay only a couple of miles to the northeast and, as they approached the Roulan property, they dismounted in a stand of oak and beech trees a small distance from the rundown building that Nicolaa’s bailiff had mentioned. The smell and sound of pigs reached them as they secured the reins of their mounts to a tree and walked quietly through the small wood to where the animals were penned.

The swineherd was in the process of feeding his charges when he heard the approach of the two knights. Dropping the leather swill bucket he held, he backed up a few paces in alarm and Bascot quickly put his finger to his lips to ensure quietness and then beckoned the swineherd to come forward. The pig man, a stoop-shouldered individual of about fifty years of age, and wearing clothes that were smeared with pig muck, crept hesitantly to where Bascot and Emilius stood.

“Is there anyone in the main building?” Bascot asked in low tones.

The swineherd nodded. “Master Savaric came yesterday. He must still be in there, sleepin’.”

“No one else?” Bascot pressed.

The pig man nervously shrugged his shoulders. “Not so’s I seen, but I goes to bed early, ‘cause I’ve got to be up at dawn to feed the swine. Someone could ‘ave come after that, I suppose, but if they did, I never heard ‘em.”

“Is there a back entrance to the building?”

“Aye, lord, it goes to the privy, but ‘tis usually barred. Until Master Savaric needs to use it, it’ll most like stay that way.”

“Do you ever have occasion to go inside the house?”

An expression of shock crossed the swineherd’s dirty face and he grimaced, revealing a mouth that held only one or two snaggled teeth. “Me, lord? I’se been told not to go near there and whatever I’se told to do, I do. Be more than my job is worth to do aught else.”

Bascot nodded and told the swineherd to put some distance between himself and the main building. The pig man needed no other direction. Without a sound he sped off into the woods and did not look back.

Bascot and Emilius scrutinised the building that stood a few score yards from the sty. It was, as the bailiff had said, in need of repair. The walls were sturdy enough, made of stout timber, but the tiles on the roof were old and some missing in places. There were two casement windows at the front, one on either side of the door, and both had shutters firmly secured in place. A small wing was attached to the western side of the building, probably once intended as sleeping quarters for guests. It appeared to have been, in years past, a substantial, if modest, property and the size and plumpness of the pigs in the sty suggested that they still provided a lucrative source of income.

“I will circle around the back, Emilius, and make sure the door is closed,” Bascot said quietly to his companion. “Watch for any signs of movement until I return.”

Emilius gave a quick nod of his head and crouched down beside the sty, wrinkling his nose at the malodorous smell as he did so. The pigs grunted curiously at his approach but were too interested in feeding on the mash the swineherd had brought to give him more than cursory attention.

Bascot stole along the edge of the sty and moved quickly around some small outbuildings that stood near the edge of the trees. One of them, he guessed, was the hut where the swineherd lived, for the clumsily nailed planks that formed a shield for the door stood ajar and he could see a cracked wooden plate and mug set on a roughly hewn table inside. Moving along the back of a small woodshed next door to the hut, Bascot had a good view of the rear of the main building. As the swineherd had said, there was only one door, a small one leading to a privy a few feet away. As far as he could see, the door appeared to be firmly closed. From the shelter of an open-sided stable on the other side of the main building, the whicker of a horse sounded softly.

He went back to where Emilius waited. “It does not appear that anyone is astir inside. The front entrance is probably barred as well, but the door does not look as though it is a sturdy one. Be prepared to put your shoulder to it, if needs be.”

The two Templars walked up to the entrance, watching for any movement at the casements. Pushing against the main door, Bascot was surprised to find it unlocked and swung open under a gentle pressure from his hand. The movement of the door prompted a sudden rustling from inside and Bascot drew his sword while Emilius took a firm grip on the mace he carried as they stepped inside.

The room seemed dark after the brightness of the daylight outside and the figure that rose from a pallet on the floor on the other side of the room was at first indistinct. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they saw in the illumination of a small taper alongside the pallet that the person they had disturbed was Savaric. He was in the act of getting dressed and was about to pull on his boots.

“Sir Bascot!” the baseborn Roulan brother said, his impassive features registering surprise. “What do you here?”

“We have come to take Jacques into custody,” Bascot replied. “We know he is the one who murdered the harlots.”

Savaric faltered for a moment, and then set his mouth in the stern lines that Bascot remembered from his visit to Ingham. “As I told you, my half brother is dead. Your purpose here is pointless.”

“A leper may be considered dead to society, but is not truly so until he has been buried,” Bascot replied sternly. “Where is he?”

Savaric reeled back a step and glanced at the short sword that lay in its sheath beside his bed.

“Do not be foolish,” Bascot warned. “You and the rest of your family can no longer protect him. He must answer for his crimes.”

“It is not his fault,” Savaric protested. “His brain—it has been turned by the disease. He does not know …”

His words were cut off as the inner door that led to the wing on the end of the building crashed open. Through it leapt a figure swinging a double-headed flail. So abrupt was his entrance that all of them were caught off guard. Emilius was nearest and, as he turned and raised his mace in a defensive movement, the chain of the flail caught the draper about the head, one of the wickedly spiked balls smashing into his cheek, the other catching him in the neck, just above the rim of the leather gambeson he wore. Blood spurted like water from a geyser and he dropped to his knees. His attacker pulled the flail free and charged at Bascot, swinging the weapon over his head.

“Filthy whoremongers!” he yelled. “You don’t deserve to live!”

Bascot leapt to the side, bringing up his sword and dodging out of the way of the needle-sharp spikes. There could be no doubt that this was Jacques Roulan. Although his eyes were wild and staring above his unkempt beard, he had the same beaklike nose that the Templar had seen on Gilbert and Herve’s visages. Bascot’s glance flicked to the handle of the flail, which Jacques was gripping with both hands. He must have chosen the weapon because it was easier to control with fingers that had lost the sense of feeling. But it was just as deadly an instrument as a sword, especially in the hands of a man who had been trained to its use, as Jacques would have been.