Now he was confronted by a different kind of riddle and, in order to solve it, needed to fathom the machinations of a mind that would secretly plot the killing of four people. A spark of his old anger at being manipulated by the intrigues of others rose within him and he encouraged it, making a firm resolution that he would not let any obstacle deter him from being the victor in this battle to apprehend the assassin. And he would fortify himself for the fray ahead with the best weapons he had, the mail and sword of a knight of Christ.
Attempting to dismiss the gloomy and introspective thoughts from his mind, Bascot distracted himself by noting the terrain that bordered the road upon which they were travelling. After crossing the Fossdyke they followed the course of the Trent river, on the western side of which a fringe of forest began, sweeping away in a sporadic growth of trees to become the northern tip of Sherwood Forest. They passed a few hamlets with the open spaces of tilled fields around them, but there were many places where alder and oak grew, as well as the drooping branches of willow at the river’s bank, and there was dense undergrowth that would provide perfect concealment from the road. Had it been in one of these spots that the murderer had waited, hidden, until his victims should come into view? It would be easy to appear behind them, as though travelling the same route, and engage them in conversation. But where had they then been taken? As Isaac had said, the road was well patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Bascot and his escort had already passed a pair of Roget’s men, and he could see two more ahead, riding slowly north in a circuit that would no doubt end at Torksey.
The day was hot and Bascot did not press the pace out of deference to their mounts. About an hour after they had passed through Torksey they approached Philip de Kyme’s demesne. Outside the palisade that surrounded his manor house an orderly and prosperous looking village was spread. The cottages were sturdily built of wattle and daub and a meeting hall of reasonable size stood in the center, two stories high and constructed of timber. There was a quantity of pigs, geese and some penned sheep which all looked fat and healthy, as did the inhabitants, who doffed their caps respectfully as the group of horsemen cantered past.
Bascot rode down the track of packed earth that led through the village and up to the gates of the manor, Ernulf at his right hand and the two men-at-arms behind. The gateward let them through, once they had identified themselves and stated their business, giving one blast on a signal horn to announce their arrival. Inside the bailey de Kyme’s steward met them and called a groom to see to the stabling of their horses. The manor house itself was impressive, with corner turrets built of stone, a central hall of timber and a massive oak door reinforced with iron plates. The steward led the way into the hall which, since it was not yet mealtime, was bare of tables except for a large one that sat on the dais and was a permanent fixture. Directing the serjeant and two men-at-arms to a corner where there was a keg of ale, the steward led Bascot to the other end of the hall. There a group of men were seated around an unlit fireplace, drinking wine. A chessboard lay nearby, its pieces set ready for a game.
At the center of the group sat de Kyme, richly dressed and, to judge by his high colour, already blown with wine. His greying locks hung lankly and his mouth was slack. Next to him sat a man Bascot did not recognise. He had a wide fleshy face and hatchet-shaped nose below a thatch of black hair cropped in a haphazard fashion. Next to him was a lad of perhaps fourteen years, enough alike in appearance, especially about the nose, to be his son. On de Kyme’s left sat another stranger, this one above middle height and with red hair and a foxy expression. Sitting beside this stranger Bascot was surprised to see Hugh Bardolf and, next to him, William de Rollos, husband to Nicolaa de la Haye’s sister, Ermingard. Bardolf’s loose-limbed body was sprawled neatly in his seat, and with more than a glimmer of interest in his eyes he watched Bascot approach, while de Rollos gave the Templar only a curt nod of greeting and flicked his eyes away, as though embarrassed at being found in de Kyme’s hall.
“You are well come, Templar,” de Kyme said, his speech slurring slightly. Calling to a servant to bring more wine and another cup for his guest, he then introduced Bascot to his companions. The burly man on his left was, he said, his nephew Roger de Kyme and the boy his son Arthur, while the red-haired individual was a cousin, Alan de Kyme. “Bardolf and de Rollos you will already know,” he added, lifting his cup in a salutary gesture in their direction.
He looked up at Bascot. “I hope you have come to tell me that proof has been found of my wife’s guilt. Even now, the son of mine that she killed lies in my chapel awaiting burial. That bitch, to take from me the one thing above all that I desire. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a witness to Sybil’s perfidy, or that of her hellhound son. They are a devilish pair, as anyone here will tell you.”
Roger de Kyme and his son both nodded in agreement, as did Alan de Kyme. Hugh Bardolf held himself aloof from committal to the baron’s opinion, keeping his expression pleasant but devoid of emotion while de Rollos stared into his wine cup.
“I have found no proof of their complicity as yet,” Bascot replied carefully. “It seems likely, however, that Hugo was on the Torksey road when he and his wife were detracted from their journey, possibly near your manor.”
De Kyme banged his cup down on the carved wooden arm of his chair, spilling wine as he did so. “I knew it, by God. The boy was nearly here when that she-devil got hold of him. Ah, did ever a man have such misfortune as I? Once here he would have been safe, I would have seen to that. That bitch…”
Here de Kyme trailed off as self-pity and wine fumes robbed him of speech. His nephew, Roger, spoke to him consolingly. “Do not distress yourself, Uncle. Soon you will be free of her, and Conal. Time enough then to think of the future.”
“Roger is right, Philip,” Hugh Bardolf drawled. “You have heirs aplenty-two right here in the persons of Roger and Alan. Both of them have sons, although Alan’s boy is young still. And you are not old, man. You may yet have one of your own. If you marry again.”
As Bardolf spoke Roger swung an angry face in his direction. Bascot remembered that Bardolf was seeking a suitable husband for his daughter, Matilda.
“Whether Sybil and her brat are found guilty or not, it will still be a lengthy business for my uncle to rid himself of his wife,” Roger spat. “He must needs think of his estates. They would be held in wardship by the king if aught should happen to him and there is no heir declared.”