Bascot agreed that the latter was a possibility, then asked, “The stranger’s clothes, Brother-do you have them here?”
“They are in the next room, awaiting cleansing, as are the alekeeper’s. The alekeeper’s, of course, will be returned to his widow once they are in a state that will not upset her. The stranger’s I had thought to give to the poor, or to the leper house outside Pottergate. Do you wish to dispose of them in some other way?”
“No,” Bascot assured him. “I would just like to see them. Perhaps they may give me a clue to the identity of their owner.”
The monk left the room for a few moments, then reentered, carrying a bundle of clothing. His expression was one of distaste. “I have no discontent in dealing with stains of the blood with which our good Lord sustains life, but the stink of ale is offensive. The room where they were found must have been awash with it.”
He handed the young man’s tunic and hose to Bascot who had already, at the approach of the monk, smelled the acrid reek of old ale. There were few stains on the clothing however; rather it seemed that the odour had permeated the cloth without wetting it.
He looked up at the monk. “I think, Brother, that I may have some idea of how this stench adhered itself to the fabric, and also where it was that the young man spent the hours after his death.”
He shook out the garments, thinking as he did so, then asked, “When the clothing has been cleansed, may I have it for a time? I will return it for you to give as alms wherever you choose, but this cloth is of a fine weave and, to my eyes, looks distinctive. It may be that its origin will be recognised by one of Lincoln’s weavers, either as their own, or as that of a competitor in another town. If it can be determined where the cloth was purchased, we may then discover where its owner came from.”
The monk readily gave his acquiescence to the request and then Bascot asked if he might speak with Jehan’s counterpart in the nunnery. “I would ask her the same questions about the dead female that I have asked you about the young man, and I would also like to see if the cloth of her garments can be identified as to the maker.”
Brother Jehan arranged for Bascot to enter the nunnery through a small door kept for visitors, and the Templar was ushered into a tiny guest room. After a few moments a nun came in, leaving the door open. Outside, within sight and earshot, was another habited figure acting as companion. The nun who had entered was in her middle years, with a broad heavy face that wore a look of inner contentment. She sat herself on a small stool, her hands folded into the sleeves of her gown, then bade Bascot be seated also.
“I am Sister Bridget, the infirmarian. Brother Jehan has told me you have some questions about the unfortunate young woman brought here today?”
Her voice had a singsong quality about it that was calming. Bascot imagined she would be a comforting presence to the sick or dying. He asked her, as he had Brother Jehan, about any wounds or marks on the body of the dead girl and got almost the same reply.
“Yes, some welts on her legs and across her back, but nothing else,” the sister said. “Poor pretty young thing-for pretty she was once, Sir Bascot, even though death has taken the bloom from her cheek.”
“Her clothes, Sister, do you have them?”
“Yes. Like our brothers in the priory, we were going to give them to the poor once they had been cleansed of blood. It was not so much, just a little on the lace in front. They are not costly garments, but will be welcomed all the same by those that have only rags, even though they are a bit gaudy. But that can be put right by taking off the sleeves and putting in some of a darker and more sober colour. An easy task since the green ones were only loosely sewn. They were already half out of their seams, which was strange…” Sister Bridget’s eyebrows pulled together in what Bascot was sure was an unaccustomed frown.
“Why strange, Sister?” he asked.
“The gown was large on her, too big for her small frame. There should have been no strain on the stitching,” was the reply.
“Perhaps she could not afford her own and was forced to wear another’s, like one of your alms-takers,” Bascot suggested.
“That could be so,” the sister agreed, “or it may be that since she was with child her own would not fit and so she was forced to have some made larger for the time when…”
The sister would have continued on, but Bascot stopped her. “You say the young woman was enceinte?”
“Yes,” Sister Bridget replied, her expression showing surprise that he had not known. “She was about halfway through her time, and not much more than a child herself.” She shuddered. “Such evil in the world outside. Not only was the poor girl murdered but her unborn babe was killed by the same foul act. My sisters and I will pray for both of their souls, and say a special novena for the blameless one of the child.”
Bascot recovered his composure while the sister talked on. This piece of knowledge would not please Gerard Camville at all. Nor did it please Bascot. He had no doubt that the townspeople of Lincoln would feel, as he did, an outrage that a defenceless unborn child had been killed along with the mother. It was unlikely that the news could be suppressed for long, and it made it all the more imperative that he discover who the two dead strangers were. He asked the sister if he could see the girl’s clothing and she brought it. Like the garments that he had examined in the priory, these also stank of ale.
Sister Bridget promised, after cleansing, to despatch the clothing to the castle, along with that of the young man. Bascot gave her his thanks and half of a silver penny for the poor box, then left the way he had come, going through a door in the wall to find himself back in the yard where Gianni was waiting. When both were once more mounted, Bascot left the priory and turned his horse in the direction of the alehouse. If his suspicions were correct, he now knew where the bodies had been before they had been found on the taproom floor-in empty ale casks, pushed in so that the staves of the barrels had carved welts on the flesh of their backs and knees and their clothing had become contaminated by the ale-soaked wood.
Five
In a fine stone house fronting the main thoroughfare of Mikelgate two men sat in a small private room. One of them was Isaac, dead Samuel’s cousin, and the other, also a cousin, was Isaac’s younger brother, Nathan. The chamber in which the two men were ensconced was richly furnished with tables and chairs of oak. On the walls hung brightly coloured tapestries and the gleam of gold could be seen in the cups from which they were drinking and in the seven-branched candlestick that stood on a chest at the far side of the room. Both men were seated, their faces drawn in concern as they listened to the voices of women from a nearby chamber raised in soft tones of lament. Their clothes were of fine wool, worked at hem and cuff with strands of silk. Isaac was some years older than his brother, his long dark hair sprinkled with grey amongst the curls that hung down from his head and beard. He had an astute look, tempered by the slow easy movements with which he smoothed and straightened the parchment lying on the table in front of him. Nathan was fairer and more aggressive in the carriage of his body.
“You will take Samuel’s wife into your own household, Isaac?” Nathan questioned.
Isaac nodded. “She cannot be left to fend for herself. Samuel was a poor provider, but he was all she had since her own family was slain at Stamford ten years ago.”
Both men sat in silence for a moment, remembering the relatives and friends they had lost when, on the occasion of King Richard’s coronation, anti-Jewish riots had broken out all over the kingdom of England and resulted in the loss of many Jewish lives, most notably at York.
“Even though one of our own was killed, I have no doubt that it will be determined that a Jew was responsible for the deaths of the three Christians found with Samuel.” Nathan spoke with great heat, his light brown eyes showing in the intensity of their gaze the depth of his anger.
“Be easy, Brother,” Isaac soothed him. “The castle is nearby, and Lady Nicolaa is our friend. She will give us shelter should there be an outcry against us.”
“That is only because the king values us for our gold, like a herd of cows to be milked. We are only allowed to trade in usury, yet it is because of that very trade that we have silver and gold that can be stolen, and that we are resented for our riches. Nicolaa de la Haye merely protects that which is precious to her king, no more. It is even rumoured that it was her own husband who led the raid on Stamford all those years ago. Camville will do little to
