Shroud of Dishonour (7 page)

As the pair walked down Mikelgate, the Templar badge on the shoulder of Bascot’s tunic caused passersby to turn their heads and stare pointedly in his direction. The expression on most of the faces seemed merely speculative, but there were some that were openly hostile and the Templar realised, for the first time, how quickly the opprobrium caused by Elfreda’s murder had spread. As he and Roget approached the intersection of Mikelgate and Brancegate, Bascot was beginning to feel stirrings of anger within his breast for the unfairness of their judgement. Even if it had been a Templar who was responsible for Elfreda’s death, that did not mean that all of the brothers should be stained with one man’s guilt. He quickly cautioned himself not to give way to resentment. Fear, especially of heavenly wrath, often prompted the need for a scapegoat.

Suddenly, the emergence of a small procession from a narrow turning near St. Cuthbert’s church drew the attention of everyone on the street away from Bascot. At the head of a forlorn little group was a priest carrying a crucifix attached to the top of a pole. As he paced slowly forward, he intoned the words of one of the seven penitential psalms recited at funerals. Behind him were two more clerics, one on either side of a young man clad in a rough knee-length garment of cheap wool and holding a clapper in his hand. The youngster was crying copiously, twirling the clapper as he walked. The two pieces of wood crashed together with a loud cracking sound. As the procession moved out farther into the main street, it could be seen that the young man’s cheeks were covered with a bright red rash, as was the back of the hand that held the clapper. Following a few steps behind him were two women, one old and the other young, both sobbing loudly.

People drew back in alarm as they realised what they were witnessing. The young man must have recently been diagnosed as carrying the contagion of leprosy, and the procession was the commencement of a funeral rite for his diseased body. Henceforth, the leper would be considered dead, forbidden to have any contact with healthy people, including his family. Lepers were not allowed to enter a church, attend a fair or marketplace or wash their hands or any of their clothing in a stream or fountain. They were also denied the liberty of going abroad among the populace and, if necessity declared they must travel, warning of their approach must be given by means of the clapper or the ringing of a small bell. From this day on, the afflicted youngster would spend the rest of his life in a lazar house just outside the city walls. The Templar’s heart filled with compassion for the leper’s sad fate and, glancing at Roget, saw that the captain felt the same.

As the procession began to wind its way down Mikelgate towards the gate that led outside the city walls, Bascot noticed Roget, who was standing on the Templar’s sighted side, suddenly focus his attention on a knot of people standing a little way along the street. Then, with a bellow of rage, the captain darted towards the group, yelling imprecations at a slightly built man attired in shabby clothes. The fellow’s head came up and, seeing Roget running towards him, took to his heels, slipping frantically through the crowd that had paused to watch the leper’s passage. People drew back in alarm as the captain shoved his way through them to chase the man, who was doing his best to circumvent a corpulent merchant that had, at the captain’s shout of alarm, placed himself stolidly in the fugitive’s way. It was only moments before Roget had grabbed ahold of his quarry, seizing him by the long straggly hair that lay lankly on his shoulders and then grasping him firmly by the arm.

“You miserable little worm,” Roget growled at his captive. “Give me what you have just stolen or I’ll lop your thieving fingers off.”

With shaking hands, the captive reached inside his tunic and handed a leather scrip to Roget. At the same moment, a tradesman who was standing near to Bascot let out a yell of alarm. “My purse is gone,” he cried, holding up two pieces of leather thong that had once held his scrip in place on his belt but had been cleanly sliced in two.

Roget shook the thief violently and there was a clatter as a small curved knife fell from the man’s clothing. The captain scooped it up just as one of the town guards came running from where he had been standing on the other side of the street.

“Take him to the gaol to await trial,” Roget ordered, handing the cutpurse into the custody of his subordinate, along with the knife. “He’ll not find it so easy to steal after he’s had a couple of fingers sliced from his hand.”

As the thief was led away and Roget took the scrip back to the townsman from whom it had been stolen, a burst of applause rang out along with cries of “Well done, Captain” from the watching bystanders. When Roget rejoined Bascot, he had a wide grin on his face and, as they resumed their journey to the guildhall, said to the Templar, “Perhaps,
mon ami
, this is a harbinger of the day’s good fortune. A thief has been caught, maybe we will also catch a murderer.”

T
HEY FOUND
S
TOYLE, A QUIET CONSCIENTIOUS MAN, AT WORK in a little chamber at the back of the large building that was used by those responsible for the administration of Lincoln’s civil regulations as well as a meeting place for the guild masters in the town. When Hamo had needed extra help in the commandery, he had asked the bailiff to recommend three industrious young men of good character. Stoyle had subsequently sent the youngsters—one approaching his seventeenth year and the other two a couple of years younger—to the enclave and, after a brief interview, Hamo had hired them. After Bascot and Roget explained to Stoyle their need to question the boys and why, he told them to go to the flesh market on Spring Hill. The father of two of the lads had a stall there, he said, and would most likely know the whereabouts of his sons, and possibly the third boy.

After walking back up Mikelgate to Spring Hill, enquiries among the stallholders led them to a squat man with burly forearms who was hard at work chopping up half of a pig with a large cleaver. The huge apron that the fleshmonger wore was splattered with gore, as were his hands and face. The stall he owned was a large one, with chunks of beef, lamb and skinned carcasses of rabbit set out on display. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood. Hordes of flies circled around and crawled over the raw flesh, while stray cats and dogs lapped at the blood that lay in pools on the ground. Around the fleshmonger were other stalls carrying similar wares, but in smaller quantities. Goodwives from the town were inspecting the various cuts of meat on offer, many of them haggling over the price before making a selection and then wrapping their purchases in old cloths brought for the purpose and placing them in the wicker baskets they carried on their arms.

When Bascot and Roget approached the fleshmonger, he paused in his work to listen to the captain’s request to speak to his sons and, after wiping the sweat from his brow with one of his blood-stained hands, answered Roget gruffly, waving his cleaver in the direction of a neighbouring stall where three youngsters were setting out trays of offal.

“My lads and the other boy are over there,” he said and then, with a defiant glare at Bascot, added, “Meself and their mate’s father didn’t want ‘em goin’ back to the preceptory in case that murderer is still hangin’ about, so I put ‘em all to work here.”

The three youngsters had watched Roget and Bascot’s exchange with the fleshmonger and there was excitement on their faces as the Templar and captain walked over to them. When asked what their movements had been on the morning of the prostitute’s death, they responded eagerly, deriving a grisly satisfaction from their peripheral involvement in the murder. The fleshmonger’s family and that of the third boy lived close together, the eldest one said, and so he and his brother had gone to their friend’s house just after Matins, and they had walked to the enclave in each other’s company. Their journey had taken them up through Bailgate into the upper portion of the town where the castle and Minster were located, then through the grounds of the Minster and out of the gate in the eastern wall to the path that led to the preceptory. When asked if they had seen anyone during that time, the answer had been disappointing. There had not been many people on the streets that early in the morning, they were told, and only one of the guards under Roget’s command making his regular patrol and a few attendees at early morning Mass, all goodwives with young children, had been seen. Apart from those few, there had been no one else about.

Disappointed, Bascot thanked the youngsters and gave them leave to return to their chore of filling the offal trays. Then he and Roget left the flesh market, and walked back down Mikelgate to commence the tedious task of finding, and questioning, each of the men that the stewe-keeper, Verlain, had said visited Elfreda on a regular basis.

I
N THE PRECEPTORY, THE ATMOSPHERE WAS SUBDUED. EVEN though the chapel had been reconsecrated, at every service the eyes of the men strayed towards the vestry, unable to rid themselves of the thought that for two whole days, while they had been engaged in worship and prayer, a woman’s body had lain secretly decomposing in the chamber. The prostitute’s murder had cast a blight over them all.

In the hope that strenuous exercise would restore the men’s spirits, d’Arderon decided to hold a series of mock skirmishes on the hillside below the preceptory, using the rolling slope of the hill to simulate the arid terrain in the hot climes of Outremer and the Iberian Peninsula. Directing all eighteen men of the contingent to don full armour, he told them to assemble outside the gate onto the hill. He also ordered them to clad their horses in the protection that was worn while on a march into enemy territory or in battle—lengths of chain mail draped over the animals’ withers and back to shield the chests and legs of the mounts, padded covers on rumps, and fitted head-guards of either leather or mail. He then told Hamo to equip each of the men-at-arms regularly based in the enclave with one of the speedy, lightweight horses usually used by the Order’s messengers and also with bows, blunted arrows and lances. They were then to be dispersed among the hillocks of grass on the rolling slope below the enclave.

“We are going to simulate the method of attack most favoured by the Saracens when they encounter a troupe of Christian soldiers,” he informed the men of the contingent when they were all assembled. “The heathen will do their utmost to entice you into breaking out of formation. Saracen horses are smaller than ours and therefore fleeter of foot, and they will dart in, feint an attack, and then retreat, attempting to lure you into chasing them. If you are foolhardy enough to fall into that trap, you will find a dozen infidels hidden behind the next sand dune. One or two Christian soldiers, no matter how well armed, are no match for such a large number. You will be captured or killed. It is essential you obey your commander and do not engage the enemy until you are given the order to do so. This is a lesson you must learn for, if you do not, you will pay for your ignorance with your life.”

Leading them down onto the grassland until they were about a mile and a half distant from the preceptory, he gathered the men of the contingent into a troupe behind him, knights and squires in the van, men-at-arms behind, and led them in repeated charges up the hillside towards the enclave. In seeming cooperation with the preceptor’s intention, the sun shone down with a brilliance unusual for this time of year, and more in keeping with the later months of summer. Although the temperature was not nearly as high as it would be in the Holy Land, it was warm enough that perspiration soon began to trickle beneath chain mail shirts and helms, and the dust thrown up by the horses’ hooves stung the men’s eyes and clogged their nostrils. As d’Arderon led each charge up the grade of the hill, the brothers from the enclave staged the rapid assaults the preceptor had spoken of, riding just close enough to be out of reach of the swords carried by the men in the troupe and then firing an arrow or throwing a lance before darting back to a safer distance. Although the missiles were blunted, if one managed to find its way past the kite-shaped shields, the impact struck sharply against protective mail shirts and leggings, delivering painful bruises. And there was always the chance of serious injury if one should happen to land on the exposed portion of a face only partially protected by the nasal bar on helms. It was a gruelling drill, but d’Arderon hoped it would distract the men from contemplation of the circumstances surrounding the harlot’s death. Again and again, the preceptor led them through the exercise, admonishing the men who followed to keep close together and not allow the encircling men-at-arms to tempt them into retaliation unless he gave the command to do so. It was the strength of the Templar forces that obedience to their leader was absolute. A moment of impatience in a lonely stretch of desert could cost a man his life.

Emilius took up a position at the rear of the band. Despite the physical disadvantage of his crippled arm, years of battle experience made him an implacable deterrent to any who strayed from the tightly packed formation ahead of him. Wrapping the reins of his horse around the pommel of his saddle, in his strong right arm he carried a mace from which the flanges had been removed. To any who seemed about to swerve out of line, he kicked his mount forward and, guiding the animal with his knees, swung the mace onto the offending Templar’s shield. The hefty blow resulted in a bone-shaking jar that was sufficient to remind any negligent brother of the need to keep within the tightly packed formation.

The preceptor kept the men at the exercise for most of the morning. As the hour of noon approached, he separated the knights and squires from the rest and, taking them down to the flatland at the bottom of the hill, drilled them in repetitions of wheeling their horses en masse to face different directions, always keeping together in a solid bloc. When under attack, the ability to turn and present a united front to the enemy was of prime importance. Since men-at-arms often fought as infantry, Hamo took over their training, marching them forward and back in a solid rank and, at his command, pivoting shoulder to shoulder with shields enarmed. By early afternoon their passage had scarred the side of the hill with a wide swathe of churned up earth. The only breaks permitted were to rest the horses, or exchange tiring mounts for fresh ones. None were allowed to take a midday meal and thirst was quenched by a few meagre swallows of ale from a keg placed at the top of the hillside. At the hours of divine office, a short respite was allowed while the required number of paternosters for each service was repeated, just as if the men were on active duty and unable to attend services in their chapel.