It was warm in the chamber where Alys sat reading to Baldwin. A brazier burned in the corner and heavy rugs of wool and sheepskin had been placed on the floor to exclude drafts. Baldwin was wrapped in a blanket from the knees down, and seated in a cushioned chair with a high back. He listened in contentment as his betrothed read from a Psalter, her voice stumbling slightly when she came upon an unfamiliar word. Alys had come late to literacy, unlike Baldwin and his sister, Alinor, who had both been taught to read at a young age. There were still many nobles who could not read or write, but as realisation of the enjoyment and power that literacy could bring became more commonplace, it was becoming the fashion to have children of both sexes taught their letters by a household cleric or priest.
“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’” Alys’s light, even tone faltered a little as she read the passage aloud, then seemed to fade altogether as she continued, “‘My help cometh from the Lord…’” Atthese last words, she bent her head and broke unashamedly into tears.
Baldwin quickly removed the wrappings from his knees and came to her side. “Alys, what is it? Are you ill?”
The young boy, sick so often himself, was ever solicitous of illness in another, and he put his thin arm around the girl’s shoulder and lifted her head with his hand. Her eyes swam with tears, but she shook her head. “No, I am not ill; at least, not in body.”
“Then what is the matter?” Baldwin stroked her hand tenderly. Although she was older than he by four years, he seemed the more mature, the long hours spent in bed with his recurring sickness having given him ample time to reflect on the nature of life and its troubles.
“I cannot tell you, Baldwin,” Alys said. “It is a terrible matter, but it was confided to me by another and I do not wish to break a trust.”
“A trust is indeed a heavy honour,” Baldwin agreed, going across to a table and bringing her a small goblet of spiced cordial from a jug that stood there. “But if the burden is too great, it will be easier if it is shared. You know that I will not break any confidence you divulge to me.”
Alys sipped at the soothing drink and regarded the slight figure in front of her. She had always been a little in awe of Baldwin, in a way she was not of either his parents or his sister. He was so learned, and so pure, and his faith in God was of a strength rarely found in priests, let alone her elders. Her fears for Alain and the worry about his guilt had consumed her ever since she had spoken to Hugo. She had a need to confide in someone who would be able to tell her what, if anything, she could do to protect her brother, someone to allay her fear for him. Baldwin was kind, he was to be her husband one day, and she knew him to be trustworthy. Taking a deep breath, she told him what Hugo had said and about Hubert, stumbling over the part about the day the squire had propositioned her, but telling it all just the same.
Baldwin listened until she finished, his only reaction a frown as she told of Hubert placing his hand upon her breast, but he gave her a reassuring smile and nodded for her to continue. When she was done, he neither censured her nor did he reprimand her for keeping the matter secret. His trust in her honesty was complete.
When she was done, he poured himself a cup of cordial and resumed his seat, pulling the blanket over his legs before sitting silent and deep in thought for some minutes. Alys waited, used to the way he would mull over facts before making a judgement, and feeling a sense of relief in the telling, as though the weight of a millstone had been taken from her back.
“There is no proof in this story that your brother had anything to do with Hubert’s death,” he said finally and, when she started to interrupt him, held up his hand. “Although it may be that he lied to your cousin, the reason could be entirely different from the one Hugo ascribes to it. And there is only one way for you to find that out, Alys, and that is to ask Alain yourself.”
Alys leaned forward, gripping him by the hand. “I cannot, Baldwin. Alain will be angry with Hugo, and Hugo will be angry with me for breaking his confidence. Besides, if Alain and Renault did have anything to do with Hubert’s death, they might not admit it, even to me.”
“Then I will ask your brother on your behalf, and I will also ask that he swear on his honour to tell me the truth.”
At the dismay in Alys’s face, Baldwin reassured her, and stroked the hand that held his so tightly. “You are to be my wife, Alys. It is my duty to sustain you. If Alain is innocent, he has nothing to fear. If he is not, then we will ask God for guidance in the matter. We must trust in the Lord, Alys. Have you not just read that He is our keeper? He will show us what is to be done.”
Nineteen
As it came up to the hour for the evening meal Bascot realised that Gianni had been missing for a long time. He went in search of the boy, looking in all the likely places he was to be found and enquiring if anyone had seen him. Finally he went to Ernulf and asked if he would question the guards that had been on duty at the castle gates that morning.
“Perhaps he left the castle precincts on some errand or other and, if he did, they may have seen him leave,” Bascot said. “Although it is unlike Gianni to go anywhere without telling me, it is possible he may have done so. But if he did go out into the town or the cathedral he should have been back long ago. He would not miss the evening meal. I have been to the kitchens. The cook has not seen him, nor have any of the scullions. If the last food he had was when we broke our fast this morning, he will be sore hungry by now.”
Ernulf took the matter as seriously as the Templar. “Aye, you’re right. The lad likes his victuals. He would not willingly miss a meal. I’ll ask my men if any of them have seen him.”
When their enquiries were all answered in the negative, they searched the castle more thoroughly, going through the stables, the armoury and all the outbuildings, even poking about amongst the huge sacks in the food store in case Gianni had crept in there for warmth and fallen asleep. The hour for the evening repast came and went, and still there was no sign of him.
“I am certain some mischief has befallen him,” Bascot said to Ernulf as they stood in the middle of the bailey under a sky now almost fully dark. “It must have done. There is no other explanation.”
The serjeant nodded, his seamed face as worried as the Templar’s. “It’s too late tonight to search anymore. But if he does not turn up by morning, I’ll have my lads scout around outside the walls and over the Fossdyke. He is not within the bail, else we would have found him, so he must be somewhere outside.”
Bascot acknowledged the truth of the serjeant’s words and added, “If he is, Ernulf, he is not there of his own volition. Of that I am certain.”
Not only Gianni missed the evening meal. At the hour when trestle tables were being erected in the hall and laid with clean linen cloths, Nicolaa was sitting in her private chamber listening to her nephew Baldwin tell what he had discovered that afternoon from Alys, and how he had questioned both Alain and Renault.
“They both swore to me they had nothing to do with Hubert’s death, Aunt, although Alain did go out that night with the intent of waylaying him and giving him a sound thrashing for his treatment of Alys. Renault was privy to his purpose and, when Alain did not return, he followed to find out what had happened. But Alain could not find Hubert. He knew the squire had left the castle by the western gate just after sunset, riding one of Uncle William’s sumpter ponies and, since Hubert had been bragging earlier of a wench that he said was panting for his company, both Alain and Renault assumed that he had gone to keep a tryst with the girl. They expected him to return before curfew was called. Alain waited just outside the main gate until the gateward’s horn was blown to signal that the entrance would be shut, and then he and Renault kept watch for Hubert from inside the ward, thinking he would use the postern gate when he returned. They stayed there until the early hours of the morning and it was nearly dawn before they returned to their pallets in the hall. That is their explanation of why they were gone for most of the night. When the squire was discovered murdered, they decided it would be best to say nothing of their vigil, lest they be suspected of something in which they had no part.”