“Is Sir Philip literate?” Bascot asked.
Scothern shook his head. “He can sign his name, and scan the tallies of some of his holdings, but not much more.”
“Then you will have written all of his letters and read the replies for his benefit?” The secretarius nodded. “How did your master locate the boy’s mother? It would seem she had been gone many years from Lincoln.”
“Her father was a perfume maker, and Sir Philip knew that he had relations in Maine and also believed that was where she was sent when
… her condition… became obvious. I made enquiries among the merchants of Lincoln and, from the information I garnered, we discovered that it was most likely she was in the town of La Lune. Sir Philip directed that a letter be sent there-to the provost of the town-asking that he make an attempt to locate the lady he was looking for. Not much later we had a reply from a priest-the lady apparently lived in his parish-and Sir Philip sent a letter, written at his direction by myself, for the priest to forward to her.”
“I see.” Bascot picked up one of the scrolls. It was neatly dated on the outside with the inscription of a day in early April. “This is the first one received from her?”
Scothern nodded and Bascot unrolled the letter and scanned the contents. The scribing was neat, probably written by a clerk or priest. It was in formal language, thanking her former lover for his interest in their son and telling how she had, with the help of relatives, been able to follow her father’s trade of perfume maker. She went on to say that she had never married, that her whole existence had revolved around Hugo and that she had never let him forget that his father was of the English nobility. He was a fine boy, she had appended, whom she had managed to have educated and who had repaid her efforts by being hardworking and honest. The letter closed by saying that she hoped one day Philip would want to meet his son and that they looked forward to further communications from him.
In all, it was a letter written with almost fawning polite-ness and hinted at the underlying hope of some gain from the resumption of de Kyme’s interest. Philip’s reply was enthusiastic, expressing a desire to see his son and offering to pay the expenses of the boy’s trip to England. Eleanor’s reply to this letter was effusive, as was the next, and last, one. She told him the boy would journey as soon as he could to Lincoln and would bring his pregnant wife with him. She thanked him for his generosity and said that, once Hugo was safely on his way, she would be going on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in Compostella to thank God for her boy’s good fortune in being reunited with his father.
“That Hugo’s mother was going on a journey was not mentioned when Sir Philip learned that it was his son who had been murdered,” Bascot said to Scothern.
“I believe he had forgotten,” the secretarius replied. “He was so distraught, I think he gave little thought to how much Hugo’s mother would be grieved.”
“Has any attempt been made to inform her?” Bascot asked, noting again the clerk’s seeming nervousness as he replied.
“Sir Philip bade me write a letter to the priest at La Lune. When she returns I have no doubt he will tell her the sad news.”
Scothern busied himself rerolling Eleanor’s letters and started a little when Bascot told him that he would take them back with him to Lincoln for it was probable they would be needed when the charge was brought against Lady Sybil and Conal at the assizes. The clerk’s edginess irritated Bascot and finally he said, “What is it, Scothern? You quiver like a deer that has scented the hounds. Is there something you are not telling me?”
The clerk shook his head vigorously. “No. No, Sir Bascot. It is only…”
“Out with it,” Bascot prompted.
“It is only that I wonder if I did the right thing in telling you my suspicions about the identity of the two murdered young people. Perhaps it would have been better had they been left unknown. When the boy did not turn up Sir Philip would perhaps have thought he had not come after all, or that he had perished somewhere on the journey long before he reached Lincoln.”
“Why do you say that?” Bascot asked.
Scothern shook his head again, and his reply, when it came, was hesitant. “I never thought that Sir Philip would think Lady Sybil and Conal had anything to do with the boy’s death. And now, Roger and Alan de Kyme, they…”
As his voice trailed off, Bascot felt empathy for the clerk. “All and sundry gather like beggars at a funeral feast, do they not? You fear that whichever way this turns out, those who are not satisfied with the result will turn on you as being the instigator of their misfortune?”
“In the days before heralds were honoured for their craft, it was not unusual for a lord to have the bearer of bad tidings put to death,” Scothern replied, his full mouth drawn into a tight line.
Before Bascot could make any response there was a light footfall at the door. The Templar swung on his heel, cursing the stab of pain in his ankle as he did so, turning the sighted side of his face towards the person that had entered. It was Isobel Scothern. She had a trail of gowns over one arm and a clutch of ribbons in the other. She gave Bascot a cool look.
“My sister is here to gather some clothing for Lady Sybil,” Scothern explained. “Her mistress did not take many garments with her on the journey to Lincoln.”
“Neither did I, brother. We did not expect to make such a long stay.”
With barely concealed contempt she gave Bascot an aloof nod of acknowledgement, then spoke again to Scothern. “I have nearly completed my task, but Lady Sybil instructed me to also bring some jewellery that she left here. It would seem to have been taken from the casket where it is usually kept. Do you know where it is?”
“I do, Bella. It is locked away and Sir Philip has ordered that it remain so. He said that most of it was his gift to her on their wedding day and, since she has not proved a true wife, he does not feel any obligation to leave it in her possession.” Scothern stammered over the words.
“I see. So your most puissant lord intends not only to strip his lady of her good name, but also of the few paltry trinkets he gave her as a bride gift.” The scorn in Isobel’s voice was like ice. “I will tell Lady Sybil your words, Will. I wish you well of your master.”
With her parting remark she left the room, a trace of honeysuckle perfume lingering after her. Scothern turned to the Templar. “That is another problem with my revelation to you, Sir Bascot. My sister and I have become estranged over it.”
“Are you surprised at that?” Bascot asked.
“Not really,” Scothern replied miserably. “Females are ever capricious.”
Nineteen
Gianni sat in his place amongst the castle hounds and peered out from behind one of the shaggy heads to stare at the people seated with Lady Nicolaa at the table on the dais. The midday meal had already been served and the castellan was lingering over wine and sweetmeats with the newly come guests. Gianni had never seen any of these people in Lincoln before. They were two men of middle age, both tall and fair-haired, and an elderly woman who was almost as tall as the men but, unlike them, was thin and fond of punctuating her speech by thumping on the floor with the short staff she carried as an aid in walking. The cane was mounted on top with the head of a raven fashioned in silver. Gianni watched as her fingers clenched and unclenched in frustration around the sharp pointed beak as she spoke.
As far as Gianni could tell, Lady Nicolaa was trying to placate the two men, who looked enough alike to be brothers. Gianni knew they were speaking about the murder of the people in the alehouse and, since his master was concerned in the affair, he strained his ears to try and hear what was being said over the scratchings and grunts of the dogs.
Bascot had left early that morning, before these new visitors had come. Gianni did not like it when the Templar was away from him, even for a short space, and he almost always took refuge with the hounds until his master returned or went to sit by himself in their tiny room at the top of the old keep. Even now, after he had been with the Templar for almost a year, he mistrusted any other human companion. He had too many memories from his childhood of the blows and curses that had rained on him when he had begged for scraps of food, and
