The huge open space was almost empty, only the shrill cries of a goose girl shooing her errant flock back into their pen breaking the unusual stillness. A faint clanging could be heard from the blacksmith’s forge but it was halfhearted and stopped as the Templar and Gianni walked towards the main gate. Down the wooden walkway of the keep’s forebuilding, a party of nobles was descending. Bascot recognised Richard Camville, Nicolaa and Gerard’s son, in the lead, walking beside Conal, Philip de Kyme’s son-by-marriage. Conal was looking straight ahead, his bright fair hair riffling in the breeze and a sullen look on his handsome face, lips pursed and chin high. Richard kept pace with him, slicing a glance at his companion now and then, but saying nothing. Behind them came Gerard and Philip de Kyme, the latter red faced and angry, shouting words lost by distance to Bascot at the descending back of his stepson, while Camville laid a restraining hand on the arm of his friend.
Suddenly de Kyme stopped and turned on the stair. Behind him and Camville were Lady Nicolaa and another woman that Bascot recognised as Sybil, de Kyme’s wife, a tall thin woman with a long face and sad eyes. She was watching her husband and son with an expression that was a combination of anger and grief. De Kyme mouthed something at her and she flinched visibly, then straightened as Lady Nicolaa, copying her husband, laid a hand warningly on her shoulder.
At the bottom of the stairs, which Conal and Richard had just reached, Sybil de Kyme’s son turned and, his hand at his sword, started to run back up the steps towards his mother’s husband. As if with one accord, Richard Camville grabbed his companion forcefully about the shoulders and Gerard, his hand dropping to the blade at his belt, stepped in front of de Kyme. For a moment it was like a tableau as the four men, two young and two middle-aged, glared at each other. Then de Kyme tried to push Gerard aside and scrabbled at his own blade, shouting as he did so. Smaller and slighter, he had no chance of moving the sheriff, who stood like a rock barring his passage. Suddenly Conal shook himself loose of Richard’s grasp and marched back down the steps and across the bail in the direction of the stables. Richard, after a glance at his parents, shook his head and followed him. Camville released his sword hilt, laughed, and then flung an arm about de Kyme and led him off across the bail to the armoury, while Nicolaa and her companion slowly descended the stairs, Sybil de Kyme with faltering steps and an unsteady hand on the rail. Behind them came a group of other ladies, veils and sleeves fluttering, heads together as they spoke in whispers and gave covert glances at the back of Sybil de Kyme.
As the group moved slowly towards the main gate and went through it, trailed by a few younger squires and pages, Ernulf appeared at the top of the forecastle steps, a linen-wrapped bundle under his arm. He saw Bascot and hailed him, signalling him to wait, then trotted down the stairs and over to where he stood.
“A monk from the priory came while the procession was passing,” he said. “Brought the two dead youngsters’ clothing. Seems the nuns got ’em cleaned as best they could and dried ’em in yesterday’s sun before the storm came. Also said that Father Anselm is still alive, but only just. Seems none of his vital organs were damaged, as far as can be told, but he is very weak. Brother Jehan is dosing him with a potion to keep him asleep. Give the wound a chance to start mending.”
Bascot digested the news and took the bundle from Ernulf. “I’m glad the nuns were so swift with the clothing,” he said. “Since it seems that Father Anselm will not be able to communicate with anyone just yet, I shall visit some of the drapers today and see if they can identify the cloth.”
“Even if they do, it might have travelled far and wide before it was made into the clothes those two were wearing,” Ernulf opined.
“I know, but it’s a logical place to start.” Bascot looked at the serjeant with a raised eyebrow. “What was the ruckus between the de Kyme’s?”
Ernulf shrugged, his seamed face set into disgruntled lines. “De Kyme woke with a head mazed with wine. Decided to ease the ache by blaming his wife for some imagined thing or other. Conal said some hard words about the treatment of his mother-quite right, too, by my way of thinking, the lady is ill-used by her husband most of the time-and de Kyme turned on him, like he usually does. Told the lad he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a knight, and said he wished that both he and his mother had never come into his sight. Said he had the hammer to make more sons, but Sybil’s anvil could produce only the like of Conal or nothing at all and he was going to set the matter straight. The boy took offence-as who wouldn’t?-and it was only by young Richard and Sir Gerard intervening that there wasn’t more than hard words said. From the way de Kyme spoke,” Ernulf added musingly, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sent off to the archbishop for licence to have his marriage dissolved. He and Conal’s mother are cousins of a sort, even if distant. Could be grounds for consanguinity.”
The serjeant rubbed his face with a distracted hand as he finished speaking. “Well, nothing to do with us and these murders, is it? Lady Nicolaa said as I was under your orders until the matter got sorted out. Do you want me to accompany you today, or have you another errand? I could take a walk down to Butwerk; ask among the prostitutes about the dead girl, if you like. Might help if I had her clothing, though. Someone might recognise it.”
Bascot considered a moment. “Let’s go together, Ernulf. The drapers might be more content to answer my questions once they have assured themselves there are profits in the offing.”
“And the harlots will be less busy this morning than tonight,” Ernulf agreed with a grin. “But it’s a fair piece for you to walk with that ankle, what with the crowds and all. If we get mounts, we can ride outside the walls down to the lower town. Be easier on all of us.”
Bascot agreed and they walked towards the stables. Just before they reached the open gates, a large black stallion shot out, Conal on its back, kicking hard with his spurs. Behind him thundered another mount, a heavy bay ridden by Richard Camville, who was calling to his friend to slow his pace. Conal paid no attention, but galloped headlong across the bailey, scattering the goose girl’s flock once more, and rode through the west gate, across the drawbridge and out into the open countryside, Richard behind him. They left a cloud of dust and goose feathers in their wake.
“Let’s hope there’s not more blood spilled before sunset,” Ernulf said sadly. “Lady Nicolaa’s trencher is already as full as it needs to be without de Kyme and the results of his bad temper adding to it.”
“At least if there’s murder done amongst the de Kymes we won’t have to look far for the culprit,” said Bascot, not realising, as he spoke, that he would soon have cause to remember the careless words.
Once mounted they left by the same gate as the two young men but at a more sedate pace. Dust whirls still lingered along the track that Conal and Richard had taken. Bascot, with Gianni riding pillion and the serjeant’s mount behind, descended the hill, hard under the lee of the castle wall to start with, then beside the stone boundaries of the city as they descended still farther, finally reaching the lower part of Lincoln town and the banks of the River Witham.
Along the riverside a path led, beside which barges laden with goods lifted gently in the tide, and fishing boats and small coracles were moored. The water in this part of the river had been turned a muddy brownish grey colour by the effluence discharged from the vats of the dyers, most of whom had premises in nearby Walkergate. A few mangy curs patrolled the docks, snarling at each other and engaging in the occasional fight. The air was filled with the furious shrieks of scavenging birds as they swooped to pick up a dead fish or eel, vying for their prey with the rats that scurried under the wharves, black eyes and sleek fur flashing as they darted out of reach of the birds’ sharp beaks.