Philip de Kyme stood in the small chapel that abutted his manor house and stared down at the spot where he had buried Hugo and his wife. A slab of expensive marble marked the place near the head of the nave, and it would be suitably inscribed by a skilled mason in a day or two. At the baron’s side stood William Scothern, head bowed and hands clasped as he waited for his master to finish the prayer he was murmuring.
“Well, William,” de Kyme said finally, “my only son is buried. I would wish it were my wife instead.”
“She will be suitably punished by the justices, my lord,” Scothern answered quietly.
“Aye, I am only sorry that her rank will probably prevent them from demanding her life,” de Kyme replied. “Still, there is the comfort of knowing that my marriage will be dissolved. Not even our sanctimonious Bishop Hugh would demand I stay married to a wife who is guilty of murder.”
“It will give you great pleasure to be free of her, my lord,” Scothern replied smoothly.
De Kyme’s wine-ravaged face lit up. “Aye, Will, great pleasure. The moment of our parting will be sweeter than a cup of nectar from the finest grapes of Auxerre. I will not carp at the cost of achieving it.” He threw his arm around the shoulders of his secretarius. “And do not think I shall forget your loyalty throughout this matter. You have served me well, and shall be just as well rewarded.”
Wine was also being mentioned in the Lincoln town house of Philip de Kyme’s nephew, Roger. But it was about the lack of it.
“God’s Blood, is there nothing but this soured ale to drink?” he demanded of his steward, an aging retainer with the shabby clothes and pained expression of a long-suffering servant.
“There was only a small store of wine put by, my lord,” the steward replied. “And it was almost all used during the occasion of your uncle’s last visit. The last was served at the evening meal yesterday.”
At mention of his uncle, Roger’s temper lightened. He turned to his son, Arthur, who was keeping him company through the long hours of the afternoon, and said, “Philip’s grief will ease now that he has buried his bastard. Soon, I think, he will realise that I am the only one of our family worthy to be named his heir. I should have been named so before this if my uncle had not decided to send for that wretched boy. Still, the bastard is well gone now, and not before time.”
Arthur mirrored his father’s expression. “Yes, father. It is your good fortune that he and the child his wife was carrying were murdered together. Once Lady Sybil and Conal are denounced there will be no one to stand in your way.” The lad looked up at his father and said carefully, “Unless Sir Philip should marry again. He may yet father a legitimate child of his own.”
Roger’s heavy brows came down and met over the hook of his large nose. “He’ll not marry again. Not while I am here to persuade him against it. I shall be his heir, and no one else, I tell you.”
Arthur took a discreet course in his answer, recognising the blackness of his father’s expression. “There is only you deserve to be such, Father,” he said.
In the fine stone house of Isaac the Jew, Nathan was laying a soiled and malodorous purse in front of his brother.
“This is Samuel’s?” Isaac asked, wrinkling his nose and touching the stained scrip with the tip of his forefinger.
“It is,” Nathan said. “It is one I gave him myself.”
“Where was it found?” Isaac asked.
“It was buried in the midden at the back of the alehouse.”
“By the beard of Abraham, it must have been a brave man who searched for it,” Isaac declared, moving back from the table to escape the stench that wafted up from the purse.
“It was necessary. The servant who found it waited until the alewife was away from her yard, engaged with the attentions of her new admirer, Goscelin the baker.”
“You were wise in your decision to search the premises, even though the Templar said he had done so and not found anything other than a scrap of cloth.”
Nathan gave a grim smile. “There are places that a knight would not think of looking.”
“So it seems,” Isaac replied. “It was empty?” Nathan nodded. “And there was nothing else hidden with this?”
“My servant said not, although he claims he did not have much time to search the midden having, understandably, left it until last. But it may be that his stomach rebelled and he lacked the fortitude to be more diligent.”
“I would not blame him, if that were the case.” Isaac rose and walked a few paces, his robe billowing as he moved. Then he turned and came back to face his brother. “The Templar will have to be told of this,” he said.
“I know,” Nathan replied.
Twenty-three
Bascot was thoughtful on his ride back to Lincoln from Alan de Kyme’s messuage. The fief he had just seen was a small one, set some ways off the main road to Torksey, and gained by a narrow track that wound towards the central house and yard near the Trent River. As the Templar rode, he went over in his mind what Alan had told him. It had not been much. The baron’s cousin had cheerfully said that he had been at home with his wife on the evening and night that Brunner had been murdered and, on the day that Hugo and his wife must have met their end, had been at work on his holding, preparing a few of his lambs for sale at the fair. His wife and two of his servants would vouch for him. Bascot knew they would be unlikely to gainsay his words, since their own meagre livelihood depended on him.
“I can’t prove I didn’t kill them, Templar,” Alan had said with a crafty smile, “but neither can you prove that I did.”
One piece of information was new, however. Alan had told Bascot that his manor house had been the destination that day of the Jew, Samuel. “He was to bring me a small loan of silver I needed for repairs to my mill,” Alan had said. “He never reached here, although I don’t suppose you’ll believe that. I only wish he had. One dead Jew and no proof on him that I had received the money would have fitted me fine. But I never saw him. And that you can believe.”
As he neared the junction of the narrow dirt road from Alan de Kyme’s property and the Torksey road, Bascot noticed a small track leading back through the trees and thick underbrush in the direction of the river. He had seen a few such, all leading off the main road in the same general direction, and this was no different except it looked less used. Bringing his mount to a halt, he dismounted and walked a short way up the track. It seemed no more than a faint trail, with a few barely discernible marks of passage by either man or animal. He stopped and looked to the west, enjoying the silence and the fresh breeze while he thought. The river was close at this point, no more than a mile distant. Easy access for fishing. Or to snare the birds that inhabited the marshy ground close to the river. Or for someone who had need of a boat.
Bascot walked back to his horse and remounted. He believed he had just found the way that the dead Jew, at least, had been brought back to Lincoln.
Ernulf was waiting for him when Bascot returned to Lincoln Castle. “There is a Jew come for you. Says that Isaac sent him with a message. He won’t give it to anyone but you.”
The young Jewish boy waiting near the barracks was relieved to see Bascot. He had been there some time and being the only Jew in the midst of so many Christians was unnerving him. Hastily he handed Bascot the roll of parchment with which Isaac had entrusted him, then bolted off on a dead run out of the bail.
After reading the words written on the scroll, Bascot turned to Ernulf. “Send two men to arrest the alewife, Agnes. Bring her here and incarcerate her in your holding cell. Leave her alone, with no comfort of either food or drink. Then go yourself and fetch her sister, Jennet. Tell the sister that we have Agnes locked up and I wish to speak with her before I hand Agnes over to Roget. I’ll be waiting in the armoury.”