“What’s Brunner done, serjeant?” called out one of the bawds. “Enticed a castle wench away from your bed, has he?”
Again there was laughter, but Ernulf did not join in. “No, he hasn’t. This time he’s gone too far with his lies. I want him, and I’ll have him. And I’ll be just as hard on any that help him. Remember that if any of you are tempted not to do as I ask if, and when, he comes back.”
The harlots fell silent as they saw the gravity of Ernulf’s expression. They were still quiet as he went out the door and closed it behind him. One of the men-at-arms looked at Ernulf hopefully. “Any luck, serjeant?”
“No. He’s gone. And taken the girl with him. But I’ll find him if I have to search every ramshackle hovel in Butwerk. We know the tale the young bawd told of meeting the dead girl on the road was a lie. The girl was the wife of Philip de Kyme’s illegitimate son and was travelling with her husband, who was most definitely not a mason here in Lincoln. And it was Brunner put the bawd up to telling such a falsehood, I’ll warrant. When I find him he’ll tell me the reason why.” He flexed the strong fingers of his right hand into a fist. “I hope he’ll be reluctant to talk. It would give me great pleasure if there was a need to persuade him.”
Father Anselm was still in the throes of fever. His wound had suppurated despite Brother Jehan’s application of a marigold poultice and it looked as though the poison would kill him. The injured man had never regained full consciousness since they had brought him to the priory nor, even in his delirium, had he uttered any word that would give a hint as to his attacker. All he had said, over and over again, was one word-“Unclean.” The brothers who were looking after him were not sure what he meant. It could have referred to his wound, or perhaps the hair shirt he had been wearing. There was even a possibility that he felt, deep in his delirium, the imminence of his death and was concerned that he was not able to be shriven and his soul cleansed of sin. He was never left alone, and prayers importuning for his recovery were said at every Mass. As the heat of the day grew Brother Jehan ordered his patient bathed with water cooled in the deep recesses of the priory’s buttery. “It is all we can do for him now,” Jehan said to the novice who was his assistant. “His fate is in the hands of God.”
Sixteen
Bascot’s thoughts were scattered and unsettled after he left the solar. And he was angry. Questioning Sybil de Kyme and Conal had been humiliating for them, embarrassing for him. He knew he was ill-suited to the role of inquisitor. All those years of being subjected to the will of his Saracen captors had made him very reluctant to expose any other person to an invasion of their privacy, even if such an intrusion was sanctioned by the sheriff and his wife. But such interrogations were justified, a necessary task that must be performed in order to try and find the murderer of those innocents in the alehouse, especially the unborn babe. It seemed to him that their souls were crying out for vengeance. His discomfiture-and that of Sybil and Conal-was of little measure when set beside the heinous act that had been perpetrated.
He motioned for Gianni to accompany him and walked across the bailey in the direction of the stables. Earlier, it had been his intention to ride out to Philip de Kyme’s manor and talk to both the baron and his secretarius, William Scothern, and perhaps have a look at the letters from the dead boy’s mother. Now, instead, he felt a need to be away from the whole question of who had murdered the victims in the alehouse, and for a brief space put aside the task which Nicolaa de la Haye had given him so that he might perhaps be able to bring a semblance of order to the disquiet of his mind.
Crossing the crowded bailey he stopped briefly at the barracks to enquire if Ernulf had been successful in his trip to Butwerk to bring in the stewe-holder, Brunner. Relieved at being told that the serjeant had not yet returned, he walked through the huge gate that was the eastern entry into the castle grounds and crossed the wooden bridge leading down to street level.
Lincoln had resumed the frenzied activity that had begun during the opening parade as the business of the fair entered its second day. Across from the castle the crowds were thick in the precincts of the cathedral and as Bascot passed through Bailgate and started to walk down Steep Hill, he was hard-pressed to push through the crowds of people gathered about stalls and the open fronts of shops. There were entertainers everywhere; strolling players, performing dogs, jugglers, even a shambling old bear being baited by two or three mangy dogs in front of St. Michael’s church. The bear, its muzzle haltered by a leather snaffle, was lackadaisical in its response to the wary bravado of its attackers, ignoring the snapping and snarling of its tormentors and raising a paw only when one of the dogs would overcome fear and make a dash towards him. The crowd was heckling the bearward, offering to find him a pig or a goat as replacement for his bear, yelling that even a goose would be superior as an adversary for the dogs. Bascot edged past the throng while Gianni, as usual, kept pace at his right hand. The boy knew his master’s blindness on that side could make him unaware of an imminent collision with a passerby or the encroachment of a nimble-handed thief. He had also noticed Bascot’s dark mood and wanted to prevent any such upset from deepening it.
As they pushed their way down the sharp incline Bascot cursed his ankle, which had begun to ache. The air was filled with the cries of vendors, the raucous hum of voices raised to be heard above the din and the acrid aroma of human sweat, animal dung and fish guts. This last was from High Market on Spring Hill, a winding street that led off Steep Hill where the fishmongers of Lincoln kept their stalls. In an attempt to escape the press of people Bascot veered off the main thoroughfare, going past the Drapery where the cloth merchants and their customers milled like bees around a hive, and across the top of Parchmingate into the comparative quiet of Hungate. This street led to an intersection with Brancegate, a larger street that crossed the main road of Mikelgate. Since Hungate was nearer the city wall and the residents were mainly merchants selling less expensive items such as household implements, blankets and napery, it was not as congested as the streets they had left behind. Most of the items here would not attract those with a lot of silver to spend and so there were fewer street hawkers and the shop owners had, in the main part, put up the shutters over the casements of the bottom floor of their houses and were displaying their wares by spreading them over a counter just inside the opening. To guard against thieving, the merchant would usually stand outside on the street while a member of his family watched from within.
Many of the shops had a variety of goods for sale since most of the houses were of three stories and occupied on each level by a different family, or two or three, engaged in varying occupations. Such houses had combined their wares, laying them out carefully side by side, and took turns at guarding and selling. The customers meandering down this street were of a less pretentious sort, clothed in sober garments of russet brown or dark green, the women with plain white coifs covering their hair and the men with simple leather caps on their heads. They inspected the goods carefully, the women judiciously fingering small cloths for wrapping cheese or making swaddling bands while their husbands carefully examined the iron that had been used in making nails or carpentry tools for flaws.
To ease the ache in his ankle, Bascot stopped underneath the cloth awning of a leather worker. There were several pairs of soft shoes laid out on the counter along with a few purses and belts. Nearby, a young man clad in a leather apron was punching holes in pieces of leather with an awl. When Bascot approached, he shoved his work into a large pocket in the front of his apron and gave his prospective customer a smile. His long yellow teeth and narrow face gave him a horselike appearance and his voice, when he spoke, was also similar to the high-pitched neighing of a steed, rising and falling in quavering tones. Bascot would not have been surprised if he had whinnied in accompaniment.