The Canterbury Murders (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

“That is proof enough for me of the woman’s guilt,” Marshal exclaimed, banging the flat of his hand down with a thump onto the surface of the table on the dais. The rest of the company nodded in solemn agreement. Criel flinched as the reason Chacal had been so insistent about questioning the vintner and his men after their incarceration, and before Bascot and the earl arrived, dawned on him. It could only have been because he had wanted to determine whether or not the two delivery men had overheard Inglis reprimanding Marie for being in the room where the wine was kept. If they had, the constable had no doubt that Chacal would either have made certain of their silence by killing them or have fled with his accomplice. The constable was relieved that he had denied the mercenary admittance to the questioning.

From her demeanour, it was obvious that Yvette had not been told the details surrounding the steward’s death. She was completely unaware that the poison had been introduced into a honey mixture that was kept in the buttery, and an astonished look came over her face at the company’s reaction to her statement. She turned towards her mistress, seeking an explanation, but Isabella was standing quiet and still, two high spots of colour on her cheeks.

“Do you still say, wife, that your companion is innocent?” John demanded of Isabella.

The queen, an expression of defeat on her face, now comported herself with the dignity her husband had accused her of lacking. Drawing herself up to her full small height, she spoke in even tones. “I admit that this evidence gives room for doubt, my lord, but nonetheless, I must protest that it is still circumstantial and her guilt not proven.”

“Do you wish me to have the woman brought before you for questioning, sire?” Criel asked the king.

This was the moment John had dreaded. Until he knew for certain why the pair had murdered his servants, he could not let them be interrogated publically. Even though neither prisoner was purported to be a Breton, that did not allay his fear. Chacal, as a mercenary, could be hired by anyone, and might be in the pay of the nobles of Brittany; and the woman, what was known of her before she had appeared in Rouen castle a few months ago? Nothing. Her claim to be from Angoulême might be a complete fabrication. She, too, might have Breton connections that were not known as yet. There was only one way to be certain, and that was to dispose of both of them before they could be questioned before witnesses. In order to do that, he must have time, and the space of one night would suffice.

With a glance at the archbishop, John made a careful reply to Criel’s enquiry. “No, I think not. The day has been a long one and her examination will keep until the morning. Now that both culprits are safely under lock and key, my wife and I can return to the royal townhouse and take some rest.” Turning to his wife, he said, “You may go there now, Isabella. I will be along shortly.”

But the queen was not to be so easily dismissed. “You cannot leave Marie in that dreadful cell overnight, John,” she declared stoutly. “I will not have it while her guilt is still in doubt. I demand that she receives better treatment.”

“You ask too much, wife,” the king said impatiently. “It is almost certain that she is a murderess and, more importantly, that she has connived in treason. She will remain where she is until I say otherwise.”

Isabella’s eyes flashed with stubbornness and she continued to argue on behalf of her attendant. As she did so, Nicolaa’s mind was racing. John now had both of the people he was sure were responsible for the murders in his clutches. The only fact of which he was not certain was whether or not the slayings were connected to his treatment of Arthur. She knew he dare not question either Chacal or Marie in an open court where the motive he dreaded might come to light, and she was certain this was the reason he had announced his intention of delaying Marie’s interrogation until the morning. Whether or not the pair had committed the murders for the reason John feared, she was certain that neither of them would survive the night. It could easily be proclaimed that Chacal had died from his injuries—which Miles had told her were extensive—and as for Marie, it could be said that she had hung herself rather than face the dreadful punishment that awaited her. There were mercenaries aplenty in the bail who would carry out the tasks for a bag of silver, especially the members of Chacal’s band, whose leader’s betrayal of their royal paymaster had placed their livelihood in jeopardy.

This was the outcome she had hoped would not materialise. She had fervently prayed that Chacal and Marie would, once they were apprehended, admit to being in the pay of Philip of France, or perhaps Hugh of Lusignan, and the threat that they were privy to John’s secret about Arthur be negated.

She took a deep breath, her pulse racing. She looked around the company; except for Hubert Walter, she was the only one privy to the king’s secret and, from the consternation on the archbishop’s face, she knew that he, too, was perturbed. They were both aware that if Marie and Chacal were found dead before they could be questioned before witnesses, no one would bother to ponder on the manner in which they had died, for it would be felt they had met a just fate. Her hackles rose at the moral dilemma John was forcing upon her. Even though there was proof that the pair were murderers and deserved to die, if they were Bretons seeking vengeance for a grievous wrong done to their liege lord, did they deserve, in all honour, to suffer such an ignominious death? She had no answer, but of one thing she was certain, that she could not be party to such a deed.

As John, exasperated and out of patience with his recalcitrant wife, began to order her to depart for the royal townhouse without further delay, Nicolaa stepped forward, her heart pounding. If she could keep one of the prisoners from harm, the other would be safe. “If I may be so bold, sire,” she said to the king, “I would suggest a solution that may allay the queen’s concern.”

The king’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Do you so, lady?” he said in a sarcastic tone. “And what might that be?”

“That the female prisoner be incarcerated overnight at the townhouse where I am staying,” Nicolaa replied. “There is an empty room on the uppermost floor that would be admirable for the purpose and my own men-at-arms can stand guard over her. I will undertake responsibility for her security.”

John shook his head. “No, that is out of the question. If this woman is guilty, she is very dangerous and I will not allow you to put your own person at risk with such a commission.”

But, as Nicolaa had hoped, Isabella thought the idea an excellent one and said so, and began entreating her husband to accept the offer. As she did so, Bascot wondered at the purpose of Nicolaa’s intervention. Why did she not wish Marie to remain in the castle cell overnight? He thought of John’s seeming gratification when he had been told that Chacal had not admitted to the reason for his and Marie’s crimes. And then there was the restriction that had been placed on the information Bascot had gathered. Could it be that John feared their motive was one that implicated him in some nefarious action, one so grave he did not wish it to be revealed before witnesses? Was that what Nicolaa feared—that if both of the prisoners were left in the cells overnight, they would not survive until morning, and so could not give evidence that might be damaging to the king’s reputation?

The Templar glanced at John, saw the obdurate look on his face and knew he would not be diverted from his purpose. Bascot had been acquainted with Nicolaa long enough to know that she would not hazard incurring John’s enmity without good reason. But he held no writ of loyalty to the king, and was becoming impatient with the undercurrents of subterfuge. As Isabella continued to argue with her husband, the Templar moved quietly to the rear of the hall and slipped out the door.

***

The hard-packed earth of the bail was now laden with snow, and castle menservants were clearing pathways through it with broad wooden shovels. In front of the barracks, Godeschal de Socienne was standing with Chacal’s band, reassuring them that they would not be punished for their leader’s crimes. Nearby, the men-at-arms who had returned from punishment duty were plying the gateward and the two sentries who had been up on the parapets for details of the armed confrontation that had taken place in their absence. Nobody noticed as the Templar made his way quietly down the steps from the keep and walked across to the gaol cells. Aquarius and the two grooms had been released and the new prisoners were now housed separately in the ones the servants had occupied earlier that morning, a man-at-arms outside each one. Since he knew which cell the mercenary was in, having spoken to him after he had been taken to it earlier, he walked over to the other one, knowing Marie must be inside.

The guard made no demur when Bascot requested admission, and readily unbarred the door so he could enter. Inside, the Templar found the queen’s attendant seated on a low stool, one wrist secured to the wall by a manacle. A thick blanket was wrapped around her shoulders and a candle burned in one corner of the room, amenities that must have been provided at Isabella’s insistence.

As Bascot stepped through the door, Marie glanced up, but her face evinced no surprise; she wore the same stoic look of non-committal that she had displayed at the nunnery as, with a sneer, she said, “Well, monk, have you come to tell me why that English scum you serve as king has ordered my arrest?”

“I serve no earthly prince, mistress, English or otherwise,” Bascot quietly corrected her. “My liege lord is Christ, the king of heaven. As to why I am here, it is at my own behest, to try and convince you to tell me the reason you conspired to murder the king’s servants.”

She looked at him scornfully. “You waste your breath, Templar. I am innocent of the charge.”

“There is evidence that says otherwise, mistress,” Bascot said to her. “We have proof that you, together with Chacal, arranged their deaths, so it is useless to make false protestations. The mercenary has already been taken into custody, and is in the cell next to this one.”

At mention of Chacal’s name, and for the first time since Bascot had been in her company, a flicker of animation passed across Marie’s face. Her eyes flicked to the bandage wrapped around the Templar’s upper arm. “Almaric would never submit meekly,” she said softly. “Was it you who arrested him?”

At Bascot’s nod, she looked up at him, her gaze sorrowful. “From the day you first arrived in Canterbury, Templar, he feared you would be our undoing. It would seem his apprehension was justified. Is he sore wounded?”

“Yes, but whether or not his injuries will prove fatal cannot yet be determined,” Bascot replied.

Marie turned away and gave a mirthless laugh. “You mean that he might just live long enough to be executed,” she said dryly.

“And that event may come sooner than you think,” Bascot replied.

Marie swung her head in his direction, alarm flaring in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“It is within the king’s power to put both you and Chacal to the test to discover the reason for your crimes. That will most certainly happen tonight and, I think, it would not be surprising if neither of you survived the ordeal.”

Her face went white, but she struggled to maintain her rigid composure as she said, “I am not surprised. I know only too well how the king treats his prisoners, and that is shamefully.”

“There may be a way to forestall your fate, mistress,” Bascot said, “even if it is only for a short space. That is why I am come, to try and persuade you to tell me why you committed the murders. Doing so will not buy either you or Chacal your lives, but it may afford you an opportunity to air your grievance against the king, if that is your wish. The choice is up to you.”

She remained silent for a moment, pondering his words, and then said, “You, I think, are an honourable man, Templar, and seek only justice. Even if my confession should reach no further than these prison walls, it will be a comfort to know that I have made at least one other person aware of your king’s dishonour.”

She paused for a moment and Bascot said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Finally she took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Yes,” she said, “you are correct. Almaric and I killed the two servants. I poisoned the steward and Almaric despatched the woman. But it would not have been necessary if that fat laundress had kept her prying nose away from us. Our purpose was to take the king’s life, and his only.”

“But why did you want to kill John?” Bascot asked, pressing her to reveal the crux of the matter. It would not be long before his absence from the keep would be noted. If John discovered that he was questioning Marie without permission, it was a certainty he would be ordered to desist.

“You must tell me quickly, mistress,” he added urgently as she hesitated, “lest I am forced to leave before you can do so.”

Marie looked up at him, and he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. “It was because of my son,” she said softly. “John murdered him—for no just cause and with malicious intent. It was for this reason that Almaric and I decided that his life must be taken in forfeit.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

A short time later Bascot returned to the keep. Isabella, having lost her argument with the king to place Marie in Nicolaa’s custody for the night, was on the point of making her departure, her fur-lined cloak wrapped close about her and her expression bleak. Yvette was at her side, wan-faced and trembling. The Templar made no attempt to slip back into the company unnoticed; he walked towards the table where John was sitting, Marie behind him, her hands chained together and a man-at-arms on either side of her.

All of the company turned as the Templar strode forward, surprise on their faces. John, as soon as he caught sight of the prisoner, leapt to his feet, his face suffused with wrath.

“Why is that woman here?” he demanded. “I gave no permission for her to be removed from her cell.”

“The guards are following my orders, sire,” Bascot told him evenly. “She has confessed to her complicity in the murders.”

At this pronouncement, Isabella burst into tears, as did Yvette. William Marshal rose to his feet, and so did the archbishop. The earl wore a look of satisfaction, but Walter was apprehensive. Bascot did not look towards Nicolaa, but her sigh of relief was audible.

“You overstep your authority, Templar,” John declared heatedly. “I did not give you leave to interrogate the prisoner.”

“That is so, lord, but I am duty bound to obey the instructions given me by my superior officer, Master Berard, which was to aid you in discovering the identities of the murderers and confirming their guilt. And that is what I have done.”

Bascot had framed his words deliberately, reminding John that, as a Templar, he owed the king no allegiance and was not his to command. He expected an angry diatribe from John but, to his surprise, the king remained silent, the fury slowly draining from his face. Finally, he gave Bascot a look of respect, then touched the ruby-encrusted crucifix that depended from a gold chain round his neck. “It is as you say, de Marins,” he said, “and I cannot fault your action. Even I, a king, must answer to a higher judge.”

The archbishop started to speak as John sat back down in his chair, but the king stayed him with a wave of his hand. “Let it be, Walter. It shall be as God wills.” Turning back to Bascot, he asked if the prisoner had revealed the motive for the crimes.

“She has, sire,” Bascot answered, wondering at the king’s sudden change of demeanour. Whatever secret John held, and had shared with Nicolaa and the archbishop, it seemed he was now resigned to its revelation. In that moment, the Templar felt an unexpected stab of pity for John. The responsibilities of a monarch were onerous; it was obvious that this youngest son of old King Henry took them seriously and was trying to carry them out to the best of his ability, but was realising, as had many who had worn the crown before him, that his objectives were often confounded.

Recalling John’s scheming nature, Bascot had no difficulty in stifling his momentary compassion, and said, “Your servant, the washerwoman, overheard a conversation in
langue d’oc
between Chacal and the queen’s attendant. Since she knew that the mercenary was believed to come from Flanders, she thought his knowledge of the dialect strange and also that he was speaking in it so familiarly with one of the queen’s companions, a woman he had formerly professed not to be acquainted with. She mentioned her concern to your steward, Inglis, and also told him of her intention to speak to you about it, an intention which, unfortunately, Chacal and Marie discovered. And that is why they murdered your two servants, because they feared you would ask questions, questions that might reveal their true identities and so lead to the discovery that they intended to kill you.”

Marshal uttered an oath, and the other knights followed suit, but John remained silent and tense, as did Hubert Walter, until the king said quietly, “And has she told you the reason they wished my death?”

“It is because she believes you were responsible for the death of her baseborn son,” Bascot continued. “This son was a liegeman of Hugh of Lusignan and was taken prisoner with his lord at Mirabeau. He was also one of the captured knights that you had transferred to Corfe castle for imprisonment. It was there that he died. The mercenary, Chacal, is a legitimate offspring of her son’s father, and so is half-brother to her dead child. Together they conspired to take vengeance upon you for his death.”

“And her son’s name?” John asked.

“Hugo of Melle.”

John frowned, but even as he did so, Bascot noticed an easing of the tension in his shoulders as, with a relieved glance at the archbishop, he sat back in his chair. Melle was a small town near Niort and held from King Philip of France by Hugh of Lusignan, but the king had taken almost two hundred enemy knights captive at Mirabeau; it would not be surprising if he did not recall the names of those of lesser importance and who had, for the main part, later been sent to Corfe.

“I do not recall any such prisoner,” John said, “or the ordering of his execution. What maggot in this woman’s brain makes her think me responsible for his death?”

Behind Bascot the rest of the company had fallen silent while he conversed with the king, with only the soft sound of Yvette’s weeping breaking the hush. When John voiced his question, however, Marie’s voice rang out from where she stood between the guards, her tone strident and accusing.

“You lie! Do you sign so many writs of execution that you no longer remember all the names of the victims? I do not believe it. You starved my son, you devil, until he died, and now, for shame, will not admit it. And I wish you damned for it! Even though my Hugo was a man of honour, and of knight’s rank, you meted out a punishment to him fit only for the lowliest of felons.”

The accusation hung in the air for a moment, as did the shocked expression on the faces of all who heard her. Criel was already moving forward to remove Marie from the hall before she had a chance to continue her bitter tirade, when William Marshal’s voice rose in protest of her allegations.

“I do not know how you learned of the manner of your son’s passing, mistress, but you have obviously been misinformed,” he said. “There were some deaths at Corfe from starvation, yes, but it was due to their own actions, not the king’s.”

“No, it cannot be so,” Marie insisted loudly. “I was told, by an Angoulême knight who managed to escape from that foul prison, how Hugo was killed. He was there and saw it done. It is the truth, I tell you.”

“It is not,” Marshal told her, his voice losing a little of its harshness as he saw the naked pain in her eyes. “Those who died from starvation did so after they made an attempt to escape and, when it was unsuccessful, and after killing several guards, barricaded themselves in the keep. In an attempt to make them surrender, their gaolers denied them food, but it was many days before they finally capitulated and, in that time, a few of them, especially those that had sustained wounds at Mirabeau, were dead from lack of sustenance. If your son was one of those who expired, it is not the king you should blame, but the rebelliousness of your offspring.”

Marie’s face blanched at the earl’s statement. Either she had not been aware of the circumstances surrounding her son’s death or she had discounted them as being of no importance. Shocked into silence, she said nothing as John, leaning forward, spoke to her with a rancour that matched her own.

“You prate of honour, mistress, but neither you nor your traitorous accomplice know the meaning of the word. What mercy did you show either of my two servants, guilty of no crime except loyalty to their monarch? Two innocent souls that you killed without remorse. If any here should stand accused of baseness, it is you and Chacal, not I.”

When the king finished speaking, he turned to Criel and barked out an order. “Take this woman out of my sight, constable, lest I slay her where she stands.”