“Sorry we took so long, lad,” the serjeant said, puffing from the exertion of his run. “A wagon went by and we couldn’t see you for a moment or two, but then when we saw the crowd gather, we reckoned somethin’ was going on, so we came as quick as we could.”
Within moments, the groom brought their horses and Willi was hoisted up onto one of them. “Well done, lad,” Ernulf said to Gianni. “Should’ve brought you with me yesterday, would’ve saved us a lot of useless traipsin’ about.”
Gianni nodded his appreciation of the compliment and then, picking up the fallen pie from where it lay on the cobbles, handed it to Willi, who devoured it ravenously.
Twenty-three
As Ernulf and Gianni were on their way back to the castle with the reluctant Willi, and Elise was strolling down Mikelgate in the company of Margaret and Nicholas, Bascot was knocking on the door of a building in Hungate that housed the shop of Reinbald, the wine merchant. The merchant and his wife had no children, but had taken the two sons of his wife’s dead sister’s to raise as their own. The eldest, Ivor, had since returned to his native Norway, but his brother, Harald, assisted his uncle in his business and was now his heir.
Bascot had liked both Reinbald and Harald and they, for their part, were grateful to him for unearthing the identity of the man who had tried to kill them. The Templar hoped the pair would be at work in Reinbald’s wine store on this morning and, when the door was opened by a servant, was told that they were in a small room at the rear of the building.
The pleasant aroma of wine filled Bascot’s nostrils as he followed in the wake of the servant. Kegs were piled high on either side of him, each one branded with the mark of its origin. There were wines from France and Spain, a few barrels of Malmsey from Cyprus and, Bascot was pleased to see, some smaller casks from Portugal.
When the servant admitted the Templar into Reinbald and Harald’s presence, they were poring over records of lading but, when they saw the identity of their visitor, quickly rose to their feet and greeted him warmly.
“Sir Bascot,” Reinbald exclaimed, “you are well come, well come, indeed. Please, be seated and allow me to pour you a cup of a wine we have just received from Tuscany. Harald and I have both found it to have an outstanding taste and aroma.”
Bascot took the chair the wine merchant had indicated and, when the cup was handed to him, took a mouthful of the wine. Reinbald was correct in his estimation. It was smooth and had a lusty bouquet. After Bascot had expressed his approval, Reinbald topped up his cup and both men listened with grave attention as he explained the purpose of his visit, and that he had come to ask if the murdered man had ever visited his shop.
“I am trying to track down any acquaintances Tercel may have made in Lincoln,” Bascot added, “in the hope that, by doing so, I may find some trace of the reason for his murder. Since it has been reported that, before his death, he expressed a liking for Portuguese wine, it may be that he visited one of the wine merchants in the town and, while in conversation with them, mentioned something of import. The master of your guild, who was in the castle on the night of the murder, had never met him. That is why I am here-to ask if you might have done so.”
Bascot then went on to describe Tercel in detail, his colouring and manner of dress and what he had learned of the dead man’s personality. When he had finished, Reinbald shook his head, the jowls on his heavy-featured face waggling slightly as he did so. He then looked interrogatively at Harald, who also gave a negative response, but reached into the open-faced cupboard behind him and extracted a roll of parchment which was, he explained, a record of their customers for the last six months. A quick perusal told him that Tercel’s name was not amongst them.
“I am sorry that we are not able to help you,” Reinbald said with genuine regret. “There are quite a few wine merchants in Lincoln; you will find it a lengthy task to check all of them.”
The Templar decided to try a different tack. Recalling Nicolaa de la Haye’s suggestion that if Tercel’s mother was not from Winchester, she may have been on a visit there with relatives at the time of her son’s conception, he said, “It is thought that the dead man had a connection with the town of Winchester, but the link is an old one, dating back to the time of his birth more than five and twenty years ago. Do you recall, Reinbald, if any of your competitors had occasion to journey to the town about that time?”
Reinbald’s face registered his surprise at the question, but he did his best to answer it. “I was a young man then,” he said with a rueful expression, “and my father was still alive. Both he and I often travelled to ports on the south coast, either to inspect a shipment that had arrived from across the Narrow Sea or to travel to vineyards in France or Spain to sample a wine before we bought it. But we never went to Winchester-it is not a port, so there would have been no need. The same would be true of other wine merchants. Their business normally only takes them to London or one of the Cinque Ports.”
Bascot nodded. It was the answer he had expected, not the one he had hoped for. There was no other place to look for a trace of Tercel’s search for his mother except, as Reinbald said, to speak to all of the other wine merchants in Lincoln; a time-consuming exercise that might well prove useless. Disappointed, he finished his wine and was about to take his leave when Reinbald added, “Now that I cast my mind back, I do recall mention of someone making a trip to Winchester about that time, but it was a neighbour of ours who went there, and he was a draper, not a wine merchant.”
A flicker of hope rose in Bascot and he settled himself back in his seat as Reinbald, his lips pursed with the effort of searching his memory, continued, “My father died in ’79, so it must have been before that. The reason I recall it is that the draper bought a fine new cart to make the journey and had it all gloriously painted in red with bright yellow trim. My father and I were of the opinion that the draper was foolish to travel such a long distance so early in the season-it was about this time of year, February or March, and the weather had been terrible-and that he had wasted his money on the embellishment for it would be ruined by the time he returned. We didn’t see the draper for many weeks after that but, when he finally arrived back in Lincoln, our prediction was proved correct. Rainstorms and heavy winds had plagued his southward journey and played havoc with the paintwork. The cart had hardly a scrap of colour left on it that wasn’t flaking or scarred.”
“Did the draper have a daughter, perhaps, that went with him?” Bascot asked hopefully. Tercel must have been conceived about the time of Eastertide so, if the draper’s trip had taken place in the year of 1176, and a daughter had accompanied him, it would have been the right time of year for the girl to have lain with a lover, fallen pregnant, and given birth to the cofferer nine months later in January of 1177. A slim chance, at best, that he had finally found some trace of the woman they were seeking, but worth investigating all the same.
To Bascot’s regret, Reinbald shook his leonine head. “He and his wife were a childless couple and getting along in years. They both died not long after my father passed away.”
At the words, the Templar began to resign himself to accept yet another failure, but was forestalled from doing so when Reinbald added, “But there were a couple of young girls, relatives of some sort, nieces I think, that used to visit them often. It could be that one of them accompanied the draper.”
“Do you remember their names?” the Templar asked.
The wine merchant looked up at Bascot with a smile and shook his head. “Neither of the girls were what I thought of, in those days, as comely, so I never paid them much attention. As I said, I was young, and had not yet learned there is more to a woman than a large bosom and a beguiling smile.”