Gently he led her back to her seat, then greeted his uncles. Sybil did the same, then both she and Conal sat down beside Hilde.
Gianni crept forward now, closer to where Bascot and Ernulf stood. Nicolaa de la Haye beckoned to the Templar and introduced him to her guests.
“These are Lady Sybil’s brothers, Ailwin and Magnus Redwison. Lady Hilde is great-aunt to Conal. His father was her nephew, her brother’s son.” She explained Bascot’s role in the matter of the crime with which Conal and his mother were charged. “Sir Bascot is gathering evidence to place before the judges at the assizes. It is to be hoped he will find some information that will prove your sister’s innocence, my lords,” she said to Magnus and Ailwin, “but so far, none has been forthcoming.” She looked at Bascot. “Unless, de Marins, there is something new since last we spoke…”
“Nothing, lady,” Bascot replied, “but neither is there anything to prove their guilt.”
“Exactly,” burst out Hilde, leaning forward and thumping her cane to emphasize her point. “That is because they have none. Tell me, Templar, have you found any indication of someone else’s involvement? Another party who would profit by this boy’s death? There are other heirs to de Kyme’s estates, are there not? A nephew and some cousins? Where were they when this deed was done? Does he have a leman who hopes to become his wife if he is free of Sybil?”
Bascot smiled at the old woman. He liked her forthright-ness and, since his visit to de Kyme that morning, her thoughts echoed his own. There were others beside Conal for whom the inheritance of the baron could provide a strong enough lure to tempt them to commit murder. But to interrogate persons of the status of de Kyme’s nephew and cousin might result in harsh complaints from them at such treatment, and needed to have the direct authority of the sheriff, not just that of Nicolaa de la Haye. In answering Lady Hilde, he chose his words carefully, in order not to offend the woman who had so generously given him a place in her retinue.
“So far, lady, my commission has been only to determine if your great-nephew and his mother could or could not have had the opportunity to commit the murders. But perhaps you are right, it may be worthwhile to look for another likely culprit. But to do so, I will need a warrant whose power will not be questioned. Many who are touched by this affair will not take kindly to my intervention otherwise.”
Lady Hilde immediately understood the delicacy of his words and swung her piercing gaze on Nicolaa. “The truth must be found, and it is the duty of the sheriff to ensure that it is. And your’s also, Lady Nicolaa, as keeper of the king’s castle and his peace. Will you persuade your husband to this course?”
Nicolaa considered the suggestion, not taking offence at the imperiousness in the older woman’s tone and the unnecessary reminder of the obligations of her office. Finally she nodded in agreement. “There is sense in what you say, de Marins. And, since Conal is of knight’s rank, there should be no complaint if those of equal status are questioned. I have no doubt Gerard will agree. He is as anxious as I to have this matter resolved. I pledge the warrant in his stead, and those here are witness to my words. May God give you His divine assistance.”
So saying, she rose from her seat, tired of the subject and the wrangling that had accompanied it, but conscious also of the courtesy due her guests. “I have no doubt we can all do with a brief rest before the evening meal. There are chambers above that you may consider your own while you are in Lincoln and my servants are at your bidding.”
Ailwin and Magnus sighed with relief at the dismissal, and Conal assisted his great-aunt to her feet and helped her down the two shallow stairs to the floor of the hall. As they passed Bascot, the old lady paused. “You are a man of honour, Templar, I think. It would please me if, when you have finished your duties for the day, you would attend me. It might prove profitable for us to have speech together on this matter.”
Bascot had been amused by the manner in which Hilde had spoken to the others for, although haughty, she had comported herself with courage and a keen perception. And, he surmised, she was driven by an honest intent that was laudable. Her request to him had been couched in a more conciliatory fashion and he was intrigued by her wish to speak to him privately. He decided to humour her and nodded politely; assuring her he would do as she wished. Gianni, now standing beside him, stared with fascination at the silver raven’s head on the top of her cane as, leaning heavily on Conal’s arm, Hilde went slowly from the hall.
It was late in the evening before Bascot began the ascent up the stairs to the chamber where Lady Hilde awaited him. The Templar was tired and his leg ached from the riding he had done that morning, and also from his walk to the priory that afternoon after he had left the company in the hall. The purpose of his visit had been to see if the priest, Father Anselm, was showing any signs of recovery. Brother Jehan led him to the injured man’s bed, explaining that his patient had still not regained consciousness and from lack of any sustenance except for a few mouthfuls of honeyed wine dribbled into his mouth, was likely to remain so until death should take him.
“It is a strange irony that his wound has finally begun to heal,” the infirmarian said. “It is almost as though he remains unconscious of his own choosing.”
Bascot looked down on the face of the priest. It was peaceful, smooth and unlined in repose. The Templar had judged him to be a man just a few years older than himself, but lack of food had brought a gauntness to his features that made Anselm seem closer to middle age. His hands lay one on either side of him, resting on the thick woollen blanket that served as a cover, the fingers long and sensitive. On the priest’s brow dark hair curled thickly, but his eye sockets were sunken in deep shadows. Beneath the blanket his chest rose and fell in shallow movement. What hidden failing, Bascot wondered, had prompted Anselm to don a hair shirt beneath his vestments? Was it a penance for the commission of a sin or for the pleasure of an imaginary one? Had it anything to do with the murders in the alehouse?
“Were you acquainted with Father Anselm before this incident?” Bascot asked Brother Jehan.
The infirmarian shook his head slightly. “I have spoken with him but twice, and that is all,” he said. “He is only recently come to Lincoln, arriving here some two years ago. Before that he was in Canterbury, I believe.”
“And the times that you saw him, did he make mention of anything that was troubling him? Any problems he was having in his new parish, perhaps?”
Brother Jehan gave him an uncertain look, as though asking the reason for the Templar’s questions. “I am searching for an explanation as to why he was stabbed, Brother,” Bascot said. “I had thought it to be connected to the murders in the alehouse near the church where he officiated. But I could be wrong. It might be completely unrelated, the cause instead to be found in some personal matter, even something from his past. But his injury and his death, if it comes, are just as deserving of inquiry as those of the unfortunates found on the alehouse floor. I would discover the identity of the culprit, if I can. But to do that, I need to know more about Anselm. Can you help me?”
Jehan gave the matter a few moments thought before he answered. “It is not likely that I can for, as I said, I was not often in his company. But I will tell you the little that I know.” The infirmarian cast a brief look at his patient before he continued. “The first occasion that I met Anselm was not long after he arrived in Lincoln. A fellow cleric had advised him to enquire of me if I had a remedy for a persistent rash that had appeared on his lower extremities. He seemed to me, at that time, to be a man who was distracted, as though his thoughts were far away from his surroundings. I did not pay his demeanour much mind. It is not unusual for removal to a new parish, especially one so far from a place he might have come to regard as his home, to be unsettling for a priest. I gave him a salve to use on the rash and he left. I did not see him again until some time later.”