“So am I,” Bascot replied as he dug in his purse for the money with which to pay the cobbler for Gianni’s shoes and a small deposit to show good faith for the commission of his boots.
As he and Gianni left the shop Bascot felt a release of the tension that had gripped him earlier. But he was not yet ready to visit Philip de Kyme and decided instead, since it was nearing the time for the midday meal, to walk down to Brancegate where Lincoln’s butchers sold their wares. There would be pies and pasties for sale and hopefully a baker’s stall with some good white manchet bread to go with them.
Gianni capered along all the way, kicking out his feet to admire his new shoes, even turning a somersault at one point which made a couple of young maidens passing by giggle into cupped hands as his tunic flew up and exposed the baggy linen drawers he wore underneath. As they approached the market, however, the boy’s interest turned to food. The butchers had erected more tables than usual to accommodate the influx of additional trade, and their apprentices were darting everywhere, engaged in filling orders for delivery, waving leafy branches to keep flies from their master’s work, or strutting with importance as they proffered live caged birds for the scrutiny of a prospective buyer. The noise here was as deafening as it had been earlier on the upper stretch of Steep Hill, this time with the squawking of ducks and geese, the squealing of piglets and the bleating of a dozen lambs shut up in a pen. Stray dogs yelped and snarled at one another as they vied for any gob-bet of meat that was accidentally dropped and half-wild cats prowled around the edge, keeping a wary eye on the dogs and the apprentices as they, too, searched for food. Over it all hung the smell of blood, pungent in the summer heat, emanating not only from the butcher’s stalls but also from the malodorous mixture of discarded feathers and offal that was clogging the refuse channel running down the middle of the street. Stepping carefully over the rank mess Bascot headed for a stall that was crowded with people buying pastry coffins filled with meat and gravy. He also bought, from a young serving maid with bright eyes and heat-flushed cheeks, some pease pudding that had been rolled into balls and skewered on splinters of wood. A loaf of fine manchet bread purchased from the wicker basket of a roving baker’s apprentice completed the makings for their meal and it remained only to find a quiet spot in which to eat it.
It was just as they had found an empty space by the wall of St. Martin’s church that Bascot heard his name called.
“ Hola, de Marins,” the voice roared over the din of the crowd. Bascot turned to see the captain of Gerard Camville’s guard, Roget, coming towards him, the crowd parting like melting cheese before his tall, thickset figure and badge of office. Roget had a girl hanging on his arm whom Bascot recognised as one of the serving wenches from the castle. She was young, no more than fifteen, and pretty in a full-blown way that would, with maturity, turn to obesity. She was gazing up at Roget with admiring eyes, simpering when he looked at her, and swinging her body in a way that showed she relished the company of such a prize.
“I have been looking for you, de Marins,” Roget said. “Ernulf asked me to give you a message. The stewe- holder Brunner has flown from his perch and taken the harlot, Gillie, with him. Ernulf has taken some of my men to aid him in a search for the pair.” He threw back his head and grinned, amusement sparking in his eyes. “I think it will give Ernulf great pleasure to take hold of Brunner. Although I do not believe that the stewe-holder will get any enjoyment from the meeting.”
“I think you are right,” Bascot replied. “Ernulf has an intense dislike of the man.”
Roget dropped down onto the ground beside Bascot, leaning his back against one of the barrels of water that had been placed along the base of the church wall as they were in other convenient places about the town, for use in case of fire. After taking a long pull from the wine skin he was carrying, he passed it to the Templar who took a drink and passed it back. The serving wench, impatient at Roget’s ignoring her for the moment, pulled at his arm.
“Here, ma belle,” he said, giving her the wine skin. “Drink deep, my pretty one. You will need to keep your spirits up for later.” He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a great squeeze, then pushed her to her feet, patting her on the rump as he did so. Pressing some coins into her hand, he said, “Now, go and amuse yourself for a space. Wait for me at the alehouse on the corner. And see that you do not find any gawky lads to keep you company. I do not take kindly to having another enjoy a morsel I want for myself.”
The girl gave him an uncertain look, then glanced at Bascot and Gianni and decided to do as she was told. She walked away with hips swaying under the folds of her kirtle.
“A toothsome piece,” Roget said, “but her company is tedious. Still,” he shrugged saying, “there are few women whose conversation interests me. It is only their bodies I find enjoyable.”
Bascot made no reply. Besides the vow of poverty he had taken when he had joined the Templars he had also taken one of obedience and another of chastity. The purchase of the boots had been the cause of breaking the first and his vow of obedience had been broken when he had voiced his doubts about his fitness for the Templar Order. So far, the vow of chastity remained unsoiled. That he had kept these ten long years, although he had to admit that his capture and subsequent imprisonment had made the vow easier to keep. He still remembered the feel of the lambskin girdle and sheepskin drawers a Templar donned when he took his oath. They were never to be taken off, not even for washing either the garments or the body, so that an initiate would not be tempted by their absence into the sin of lust. At first, Bascot had felt proud to be part of such a strict ethic, but as the weeks and months wore on and he travelled to the Holy Land in the blazing heat, the stench of his own sweat mingled with the rancid smell of sheep oil had finally overcome him and he had been taken with a vomiting fever which had lasted for seven days. He had to admit that the only enjoyable aspect of his imprisonment had been when the Saracens had stripped him of his Christian clothes, including the girdle and drawers. And he had never donned those two particular items of Templar apparel again, not even when he had arrived in England and had been welcomed back by the Order. Now, Roget’s remark had reminded him of the stir he had felt in his loins when Scothern’s sister, Isobel, had gazed at him with her heavy-lidded amber eyes. Inwardly, he mumbled a prayer for strength.
Roget was measuring him in amusement, the scar on his face creasing as he rolled his eyes upwards in mock resignation. “Ah, de Marins, you Templars are a chaste crew. But me, I am a libertine, and pleased to admit it.”
Bascot joined in his good humour and they finished the wine in Roget’s skin while he and Gianni ate their meal. Across the street from where they sat, a wooden stand had been set up, the top covered with rough sacking threaded on a string that could be pulled back to reveal a tiny shelf. Inside the stand, a poppet maker had secreted himself and, with the aid of two of his dolls, was manipulating them on the shelf in a parody of real life. One poppet was attired as a middle-aged matron, with a plump stomach and wobbling jowls, the other was her husband, a long stringy doll with a downcast expression and sad eyes painted on his wooden face. The poppet maker provided their voices, high-pitched for the wife, low and plaintive for the husband. The matron was berating her spouse for his shortcomings, citing everything from parsimony and incivility to lasciviousness with a neighbour’s daughter. Attached to the woman’s hand was a tiny broom made of twigs. At every protestation of innocence from her husband, the wife, propelled by the movement of the poppet maker’s fingers inside the sleeves of her gown, beat him severely about the head and shoulders with her broom. The husband cowered and covered his head with his hands-again with the help of the poppet maker’s fingers in his sleeves-moaning all the while about his misfortune in choosing a wife, which opinion caused his beating to be mightily increased. The people that had gathered to watch were howling with laughter, as was Roget, doubled over with mirth at Bascot’s side.
“ Ma foi, de Marins, what a spectacle. That is why I have never taken a wife. Marriage brings a man only a lifelong imprisonment that he can never escape, except in death.”
Thinking of Sybil de Kyme, Bascot said, “Not only a man, Roget, but a woman also sometimes.” As he said the words the glimmer of an intruding thought impinged on his consciousness. The distraction of the poppet maker’s show had caused him to remember something he had heard someone say, a remark that had submerged below the surface of his thoughts as being of no importance. He tried to retrieve it and could not. Was it to do with the alehouse, or perhaps the injured priest? Vainly he struggled with the memory but still it escaped him. He sighed. It was no use, he thought; he could not dismiss the matter of the murders from his mind. They kept floating back. He pushed himself to his feet, awkward on his aching ankle, but decisive all the same. He had had a short space of pleasure, now he must resume his task.
“I must leave you, Roget,” he said to the mercenary. “I have a matter to attend to.”
“Are you going to see if Ernulf has found Brunner?” Roget asked, looking up lazily from his comfortable position leaning against the water barrel, his interest in the poppet play momentarily diverted.
“No. I am going to see Isaac, the Jew.”
