The goldsmith moved forward, ignoring the look of dislike on Godfroi’s face. “I shall ensure that both your sister and the body of poor Hubert come to no harm. I will be with them all the way.”
Godfroi did no more than nod his acceptance of the goldsmith’s words, then made a point of ignoring him, turning to make conversation with Richard. Across the ward, the squires and pages of William Camville’s retinue were again at practice with the quintain, ignoring with youthful exuberance the sharpness of the cold wind and spatters of freezing rain that tossed around their heads.
To one side, Bascot and Ernulf stood watching the cortege prepare to depart, while Richard de Humez and his daughter, Alinor, overlooked the group from the shelter of the keep’s entryway. Young Baldwin had remained in his chamber, the weather being too inclement for him to venture outside, and his betrothed, Alys, had stayed with him to keep him company. Those servants who were going about their duties in the great expanse of the ward steered a wide path around the wagon, attempting to avoid the truculent gaze of Gerard Camville as they passed by.
Nicolaa placed her hand soothingly on Marie’s arm. “Do not fret about your brother’s concern,” she said quietly. “It is just his distress about this matter that rises to the surface. He will calm when he hears that you have arrived safely in Boston. I have instructed one of my men-at-arms to accompany you and return with all speed to let us know you have done so.”
“Thank you, lady,” Marie said, her dark eyes filling with sudden tears. With an effort, she stemmed them and said, with a quaver in her voice, “I must admit my own temper is frayed. Telling Hubert’s mother how he met his death will not be easy. And I fear that she will want the coffin opened. I do not know, in all conscience, how I can prevent that. If she insists, it may well be that the sight of his poor body will be too much for her. She is not a very strong person and he was, after all, her only son and dear to her.”
“A child’s death is never easy for a mother,” Nicolaa responded. “But God will give you guidance, child, if you ask for it. Our prayers are with you.”
Marie nodded in acquiescence and mounted her palfrey. As she did so, a pair of riders entered the bail, a woman mounted on a fine black mare caparisoned in red and blue, and a man astride a dark bay alongside her. Both were wrapped in heavy cloaks, the woman’s hood trimmed with soft fur. They rode up to the funeral party and the man hastened to help his companion alight from her mount.
As the pair approached the small gathering, Ernulf let out a low chuckle and said to Bascot, “The Fleming woman has picked a poor day to seek an audience. Lady Nicolaa is not overfond of her at the best of times and I am sure she will give her short shrift on such a sad day.”
Bascot looked at the pair, recognising the agister, Copley, but not the woman who was with him. He asked Ernulf who she was, and the serjeant explained, “That is Melisande Fleming, chief forester for Lincoln. She is also heir to her late husband’s gold manufactory, and is ever trying to curry favour with Lady Nicolaa, hoping she can persuade her to use her influence with the king to bring more offices and commissions Melisande’s way. She is a greedy woman, the Fleming widow.”
“And Copley, the agister,” Bascot asked, “is he connected to her in some way other than holding his office from her?”
“They are related,” Ernulf replied. “Cousins of some distance, I believe, but it is said Copley hopes a closer relationship will develop. If he were to wed Melisande, the contents of her coffers would pay for enough wine to drown himself in.” The serjeant shook his grizzled head. “But the fool has little cause to hope. There are many men in Lincoln who sniff at the widow’s skirts, but she keeps them all dangling, like fish on a line. I doubt she will marry again. She is too fond of her wealth to give it over to the control of a husband.”
Bascot watched as Marie and de Vetry settled themselves on their horses and the men-at-arms of the escort took up positions in front and behind the cortege as it slowly exited the bail through the east gate. After they had left, Gerard Camville, with his son and Godfroi, walked over to the practice ground to watch the squires at their exertions, leaving Nicolaa to walk back to the keep with Melisande and Copley at her elbow.
“Come, de Marins,” Ernulf said, “let’s go and find something hot to warm our bellies. And a pot of ale to wash it down.”
Bascot readily agreed and, for the first time that morning, noticed that Gianni was not with him. He was so used to the boy dogging his every step that he had assumed the lad was waiting nearby, out of the coldness of the wind. But his servant was nowhere to be seen. Bascot shrugged it off. The lad was showing some independence lately and it was most likely he had found a task that would give him an excuse to stay indoors and keep warm. Hunching his shoulders against the swirling flakes of snow that were hesitantly beginning to fall, Bascot felt that he could not blame the boy for doing so.
At about the same time as Bascot and Ernulf were eating a tasty rabbit pottage and drinking their ale, Gianni was beginning to wish he had not embarked on his venture alone. He began to realise how foolish he had been. Even if his suspicions were confirmed and proved to be pertinent, how could he prevent the villagers from alerting the man about whom the questions had been asked? He was only a boy, and a servant, with no authority to enforce their silence. Nicolaa de la Haye would not praise him; she would castigate him for his stupidity. The Templar might even be so angry at his interference that he would cast him back out into the streets to beg for his bread. Besides, the distance to the village was greater than he remembered and the solitude of the forest was frightening. He felt his heart begin to hammer with trepidation as he became aware of how far he was from all that was familiar. No, he had been wrong to come on this fool’s errand alone. He was pazzo, he said to himself in his native Italian. Daft in the head and an idiota as well. He must return to Lincoln, and return at once.
He was quite near the village now, but hastily turned back on the path to retrace his steps. He had gone only a short distance when he heard a rustling sound from somewhere behind him. To Gianni, the forest was as much a foreign country as England had been when he first came. All his young life had been spent in a city, and he knew the smells and sounds that could threaten from a dark alley or a shadowy doorway as well as he knew the fingers of his own hands. But here, among the towering shafts of tree trunks and the grating noise of winter-stripped branches swaying in the wind, it was as though he were in an alien land. He began to panic. Was the noise he heard just some small harmless animal, or was it something larger, like one of those ferocious wild pigs that the lords hunted with dogs and spears? It could even be a wolf. Fear coursed through his veins as his imagination leaped. In his mind’s eye he could see fangs, dripping with saliva, reaching for his throat.
He tried to hurry, heedless of the direction in which he was going, such was his sudden desperation to get back to the familiar walls of Lincoln castle. Completely gone were his dreams of the morning envisioning how he would be commended for his cleverness, how he would solve, all on his own, the mystery of who had murdered the squire. The turmoil of his thoughts was interrupted when he suddenly found himself on an unfamiliar path and was unsure of the way he should take. How he wished he were back in the soldiers’ barracks with the reassuring bulk of the Templar at his side. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself.
It was as he stood thus, small body tensed with concentration, that the noise came again, closer this time, and louder. Before he could turn to see what it was that threatened him, the world went black as a rough sack was thrust over his head and his flailing wrists were caught in a vice-like grip. His efforts to free himself were short-lived. Within the space of a breath, his hands were bound and he was thrown up onto his captor’s shoulder.