Finally Nicolaa spoke. “Then, Bettina, you had best tell me who it was that murdered Hubert de Tournay.”
Bettina swept her gaze slowly over all the company assembled there, taking her time, as she had been told to do, so that there should be no mistake as to the identity of the man she pointed out. Passing over the barons and squires gathered on the edge of the crowd she finally turned toward the line of men behind Nicolaa and Richard. Holding up her hand, she raised a forefinger and pointed it in steady accusation. “It was him. Sir Gerard’s forester, Tostig.”
As she called out his name, Tostig kicked his heels viciously into the sides of his mount so that it bolted and shot free of the press of prisoners and men-at-arms that surrounded him. With a curse, the forester drew the wicked blade of his hunting knife from his belt, and swerved the horse straight at Bascot.
The animal, wild-eyed and snorting, thundered across the bail. Bascot was well aware that the only chance a man on foot had to escape the flying hooves of an adversary’s mount was to wait until the last possible moment before stepping aside. If he could do that, others would bring the woodsman down. Murmuring a prayer, Bascot kept still, bracing himself to wait, focussing the vision in his sighted eye so completely on the hurtling animal that the people, the bailey, and even the sky, faded from his perception.
Just as it seemed that he could allow the iron-shod hooves to come no closer, a darkness, like a sudden cloud, flew between Bascot and the horse. Renault, who had been standing within the fringe of people closest to Bascot, had swirled the loosely draped cloak he had been wearing up into the air and over the horse’s head. The animal, already frightened, reared in alarm, sliding on its hind legs as it tried to stem its headlong flight. With an equine squeal, it lost balance, toppling over as Tostig frantically pulled on the reins in a futile attempt to control his mount. With a crash, and a pitiful whinny from the horse, it fell, pinning Tostig underneath.
For one brief moment there was silence, then Renault leaped forward and snatched up the knife that had fallen from Tostig’s hand. Breathing heavily, the horse shook its head free of the cloth that had blinded it and struggled to its feet. With quivering legs, it stood for a space before trotting away, head tossing and tail swishing.
Tostig lay still on the ground, his legs bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes, like the horse’s, were rolling, and sweat beaded his brow as he tried to lift himself, then fell back. A slow trickle of blood began to form at the corner of his mouth. The crowd in the bailey started to surge forward, but a voice that carried with a loud resonance gave a sharp command for them to keep back. Through the press Gerard Camville stepped and made his way to where the stricken forester lay.
Before he could reach Tostig, another figure streaked through the shocked throng. It was Joanna. She ran to Tostig and knelt by his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bascot moved to stand at Tostig’s feet. It was plain the forester was mortally hurt. There would be no recovery from such an injury.
Tostig had closed his eyes, but he opened them as he heard Joanna call his name. His gaze fell on Bascot. “Damn your heart, Templar. If it had not been for you, I would not have been found out.”
Joanna shook her head and, with one long slim hand, she smoothed the hair back from the forester’s brow. “No, my love,” she said quietly. “It is not the Templar you should damn, but my mother. May she be consigned to hell for this day’s work.”
The girl looked up to where Melisande still sat captive on her horse, frozen into place as she watched her daughter cry over the woodsman.
“It was you, Mother, who caused all this. You, and your love of gold and position.” Joanna threw back her head and laughed, a bitter sound that died in her throat and became a sob. “It would not have been seemly, would it Mother, for your daughter to marry a common woodsman? You wanted a rich merchant, at the very least. And all the while you were more base than the lowest serf, stealing the very revenues that the king pays you to protect. Well, Mother, now you shall have a just reward for your treachery, and so shall I. But I, at least, shall feel that my pain was worth it. Will yours be?”
The sheriff had reached Tostig as Joanna was speaking and, calling for a measure of wine, he knelt beside the dying man and held the cup to his lips. Tostig tried to drink, but it ran out of the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood that had begun to flow in a heavy stream. He coughed, and looked up at Gerard. “I am sorry, my lord, for failing you.”
“You did not fail me, Tostig,” Gerard Camville said gently, and Bascot was surprised to hear the compassion in his tone. “You have served me well and faithfully all these years. I will not forget that.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The words came with effort from Tostig’s lips as, with a shudder and a great outpouring of blood from his mouth, he died.
Twenty-nine
Bascot felt the tiredness in his bones as he made his way up the stairs to Nicolaa’s chamber. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. It was an hour past Compline and he had yet to give his report to the castellan. After sending Gianni to bed in the barracks, he and Ernulf had taken Joanna to a room off the armoury and questioned her. Anger had pushed through her tears as she had told them all of the tale, of her mother’s cupidity and intransigence, of Hubert’s demands and, finally, of her love for Tostig.
“We knew it was only a matter of time before my mother found out about us, Tostig and me,” she had said, her mouth quivering as she fought the urge to sob, “but we had thought to force her acceptance of our union. Tostig knew of her theft of the king’s revenues and of Copley’s traffic with the outlaws. He was going to threaten to reveal it to Sir Gerard unless she gave us her blessing.”
Joanna shook her head and then bowed it in her hands. When she lifted it her face was full of misery. “We needed only a few days, until King John should be here. Tostig said that would be the best time to do it, for my mother was all agog to please the king. She would have been too fearful of his displeasure to have done other than as we asked.”
“And Hubert found out about you and Tostig before you could carry out your plan?” Bascot had prompted.
“That maggot!” Joanna’s vehemence was plain. “We made certain he would regain his senses before we hanged him,” she said with bitter satisfaction, “and know the fate that awaited him. I watched Tostig kill him with pleasure.”
“And the charcoal burner and his family, did you watch their deaths with pleasure, too?” Bascot could not hide his anger.
Joanna’s shoulders slumped. “No,” she whispered. “Neither Tostig nor I had any joy in that.” She had lifted her head defiantly. “But that was your fault, Templar. If you had left well enough alone and not gone chasing into the forest with your questions…”
These last words kept ringing in Bascot’s mind as he reached the top of the stairs and tapped lightly on the door of Nicolaa’s chamber. When he went in he found the castellan seated, as usual, at her desk, and Gerard’s brother, William, standing by the fireplace with a cup of wine. Two torches flared in wall sconces, giving the room a bright illumination.
“My husband has gone to keep vigil at Tostig’s bier,” Nicolaa said by way of explaining the sheriff’s absence. Bascot nodded. He was not surprised. The evidence that Gerard Camville felt genuine grief for the death of his servant had been plain when he had overridden the castle priest’s protests and ordered that the body of the dead forester be placed in the castle chapel to await burial. “He may be a murderer,” he had said to the shocked cleric, “but he was my loyal servant. If I show God how much I valued him in life then perhaps our Good Lord will be compassionate when Tostig stands before him at death. Now, get out of my way, priest.”