When Nicolaa spoke, it was quietly. “The alehouse is on land held in fee from the Haye demesne, Gerard. Anything that happens on property from which the Haye coffers gain revenue is ultimately my responsibility. It is, therefore, right and proper that I personally oversee the search for the perpetrator of these murders. At least initially, just until the fair is over and our visitors have left, which is only a matter of a week or so. And, I think, the townspeople will accept my guidance. If they do, it will soften any complaint they may make to the king.”
Camville relaxed enough under her suggestion to stop his pacing. He nodded. “You will use Haye men?” he asked.
“De Marins and Ernulf have already viewed the bodies. They can make further enquiries into the matter and I will inform the coroner what is being done.”
Nicolaa, with a concise movement of her hands, pressed them down on the table top and rose, signifying the end of the discussion. “See if you can find out the identity of the two strangers, de Marins. Also enquire about the Jew-his own people may be able to tell you if he had incurred the enmity of a disgruntled creditor or was, perhaps, at odds with one of his own race.” She thought for a moment, then said, “This alewife-were she and her husband complaisant with each other, I wonder? It may be she knows more than she is telling. Could she have been responsible for the deaths, do you think?”
Bascot shook his head. “She has the strength, I think, but not the wits or the boldness. And it took wits and boldness to kill and hide three bodies unseen for at least a day.”
Lady Nicolaa gave his words some thought. “Still, it is worth investigating,” she said. “See her again. Be discreet, but thorough. You may call on Ernulf whenever you require his assistance.”
With that, he and the serjeant had been dismissed and Bascot had left the chamber, feeling a tinge of admiration for the economy of Lady Nicolaa’s direction and the ease with which she had quelled the uncertain temper of her husband. Such diplomacy was a rare gift.
Bascot ruminated on the task he had been given as he sipped his ale and enjoyed the delicious sweetness of the brew. How was he to set about finding out the identity of two strangers in a town half-full of people not ordinarily resident here? The smell of the ale in his cup rose strongly to his nostrils and he felt a jog at his memory. The reek of ale in the taproom earlier that day had been just as powerful, the room filled with the odour even though there had been not a drop poured in any cup, and the room clean of spills. It was not unusual for a taproom to smell so, but it had been powerfully strong, almost overwhelming, as though a barrel had been standing open in the middle of the floor. Even the bodies had stunk of it.
He began to ponder on this when Gianni made a movement and attracted his attention. The lad, though mute, had developed a series of gestures that Bascot easily interpreted. Now the boy was rubbing his stomach and pointing to his mouth. Bascot grinned. It was time for the midday meal and Gianni was hungry.
“I cannot face those stairs again in such a short time, Gianni. Go down and see the cook. Get us some food and bring it back here. When we have eaten, there is work to do.”
The boy scampered away, and Bascot lay back on his pallet and lifted the patch that covered the place where his eye had once been, rubbing the socket gently. Not vanity but pride accounted for the fact that he did not like anyone, even Gianni, to see the wound uncovered. It was a grisly sight and for a moment the pain that had burned and taken away his senses when a Muslim lord had ordered the hot iron to sear his flesh returned like a flash of lightning, then receded. He would not think on that, he decided, the memory was too painful, not for the loss of his eye but for the helplessness he had felt afterwards, and the deep anger that followed.
He got up and moved to the tiny window slit. Overhead the sky was a clear translucent blue, a heat haze shimmering over the fields and woods beyond the castle walls. Down in the bailey he could see Gianni running back across the ward towards the tower, the dark curls on his head bouncing as he struggled to balance two wooden bowls filled with food, one on top of the other. Bascot was glad to see that the boy was beginning to fill out, to put some flesh on his slight frame. When the Templar had found the lad on a wharf in Palermo the boy had been fighting with some mangy street dogs over the body of a dead pigeon, his bones protruding sticklike under a thin covering of skin. The lad had been starving, covered with the festering sores of malnutrition and eyes no more than black circles of pain. Bascot, his soul stirred by the utter desolation of the boy’s expression, had taken pity on him and given him food, then made him his servant, training him and teaching him his letters on the long journey back to England. He had been rewarded by finding that the boy had a quick and intelligent mind hidden beneath his inability to speak. Bascot did not know how old he was-nor did Gianni-but it was a reasonable guess that the young body had been stunted by lack of food and that he was older than his size would suggest, and was probably about eleven or twelve years of age. Not being able to speak his name, if he had ever known it, Bascot had christened him Giovanni, after the saint of the day on which he had found him. This had soon been shortened to the diminutive, Gianni. The boy was devoted to Bascot and, in return, the Templar had come to regard the lad in almost the same light he would have had he been his own son.
Gianni’s light footsteps pattered on the stairs outside and, as Bascot slipped his eye patch back into place, the door was pushed open to reveal the boy and his burden. One bowl, on the bottom, was filled with chunks of bread; the other, on top, was brimming with a hearty meat stew thickened with root vegetables. Carefully Gianni set them down on the floor then, removing the bread, he poured a smaller portion of stew for himself into the empty bowl and served Bascot with the remainder, laying chunks of bread beside his master on a clean cloth which he had carried folded in his belt. Two wooden spoons appeared from the folds of his tunic and he carefully polished one of them with the hem of his shirt before laying it beside Bascot. Looking up at his mentor with liquid brown eyes, he waited until Bascot gave a nod of approbation before sitting down cross-legged on the floor and hungrily attacking his own food.
As they ate, Bascot thought again about the events of the morning. In a sense, Lady Nicolaa was not only giving him a duty to perform, but a test of his capabilities. She had taken him into her household on the recommendation of the Templar master in London, who was an acquaintance of hers. When she had learned that Bascot could read and write she had asked him, after he had regained some of his strength, if he would assist her in carrying out some of the tasks of running the demesne. Literacy was uncommon, even amongst the nobility, and she had need of someone trustworthy to aid her and her overworked bailiffs and clerks in preparing the records necessary to overseeing her lands. Nothing too onerous, she had explained, or unfitting to his rank, but she herself had so little time and it would bring her great relief if he would agree. Bascot had smiled at her guile. Since he was eating her food and accepting the shelter of his room he could hardly refuse, but she had given him the courtesy of putting the request in the form of a favour to her, not as payment for her generosity. He had agreed to do as she asked and she had given him her thanks.