had been there so long it would never wash off. The goatskin garment he wore gave off a pungent smell and was stiff with old sweat and grime. Giving his young son a push and telling him to go up on the stack and continue with the task of stopping up the vent holes, the charcoal burner at last grudgingly gave Bascot his attention.
“You have heard of the death of a lad, a squire in William Camville’s retinue, found hanged in a tree not far from here?”
Chard gave his head a slight nod.
“Where were you the night before he was found?” Bascot’s tone was sharp.
“I’m here every night,” Chard replied. “My sons are too young to be left with the care of the fires. I have to do it.”
“Did you hear or see anything of the dead boy on that night?”
“No.” The answer was surly.
Bascot drew a deep breath and tried to summon up patience as he walked to the stump of a newly hewn tree and sat down. He decided to try a different tack.
“Who takes the charcoal to sell?” he asked.
“My eldest son,” the charcoal burner replied with a jerk of his head in the direction of the bigger of the two boys, still perched atop the middle mound and watching them both fearfully.
“Did he go to Lincoln that day?” Bascot asked.
Chard nodded his head. “He did. And returned before sundown. He and my younger boy were in the compound through all the hours of darkness.”
Bascot called up to the boy. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on your journey?”
Before the lad could speak, his father interrupted. “He did not. I told you. We were here all that night. No one came near nor by.”
Bascot stood up and drew the short sword he carried in his belt. He walked over to the stack that the charcoal burner had been plugging and dragged the top of his knife across the top of one of the squares of turf that formed its cover. Almost immediately a little puff of smoke appeared. He turned to Chard. “I have little inclination to be lenient with you, burner. You are insolent and uncooperative. Your very manner tells me you have something to hide. Either you tell me what it is willingly, or I take you to the sheriff and let him force it out of you. The choice is yours.”
Still the charcoal burner stood silent, his wide mouth set in a stubborn line. The dog began to whine. Bascot, his patience at an end, stepped forward and said, “Very well, Chard. You have made your decision.”
At these words the elder son, from his perch atop the smoking mound, let out a yell. “No! Tell him, Da! For the sake of Our Lord, tell him.”
Chard looked up at his son. “Shut your mouth, Adam.”
“No, Da, I will not.” The boy scrambled down and came to stand by his father, resolution on his thin grimy face. “I did see summat that afternoon,” he said to Bascot. “Just as I was coming home. A horse and rider were ahead of me on the path. There was a girl, too, up behind, on the pillion.”
Chard interrupted once more. “This has nowt to do wi’ us, Adam. If the sheriff can find someone to blame he will, whether they be guilty or no. You are putting your head in a noose, and mayhap mine and your brother’s as well.”
“No, burner, you are wrong,” Bascot told him coldly. “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
The charcoal burner gave him a scornful look of disbelief, but said nothing. Bascot left him to his doubt and turned once again to the boy. “Did you recognise either of these people? Did you see where they went?”
The boy hesitated for a moment, glanced at his father’s face, and answered with a deliberate shake of his head. “No, sir. And that’s the truth. I could tell they were my betters by the fineness of the horse and the cloak the girl wore. If they were bent on a loving spree they would not take kindly to the likes o’ me spying on ’em. So I stopped the donkey and waited for a spell. Once they had disappeared up the path, I took a different track to get back here.”
“Did you get a look at the girl’s face?”
Adam shook his head. “She had her back to me and the hood on her cloak was up.”
“Nothing else?” Bascot asked, disappointed.
“No, sir. That’s all.”
The charcoal burner relaxed his stance now, a look of resignation on his face. Bascot spoke to him once more. “I will ask you again, Chard-did you hear anything later that night-a scream, a shout for help, anything?”
The man shook his head in negation and his eldest son did, too. Even the little one, still crouching down by the dog, moved his head sideways in agreement with the others in his family. Bascot knew he would get no more out of them.
Thirteen
Hubert’s uncle,Joscelin De Vetry, arrived late that afternoon. He was a corpulent man of middle height with a mane of dark curly hair frosted with grey. His face was fat, creased with lines that seemed to show a genial temperament but his eyes, for all their sparkle, were busy as he looked inquisitively about him. The clothes he wore were of good quality; his cloak was lined with fur and there was a finely set piece of amber surrounded by silver filigree on the side of his cap. On his arrival, Nicolaa de la Haye’s steward provided him with refreshment in a corner of the hall and sent to inform his mistress of the man’s presence.
De Vetry’s manner to the castellan was courteous, but not overly respectful. He was, he explained, only Hubert’s uncle-by-marriage, his wife being the sister of the mother of the boy.
“You will know that Hubert’s father is dead,” he said, “and since all his other male relatives are away from home, it was thought best if I came to escort the boy’s remains back to his mother so that she may bury him.”
He went on to add that he also had business in Lincoln that could be transacted during the day or two he would stay before he returned home. There followed a careful explanation of his own antecedents: that although he himself had been gently born of a father who had been an impoverished knight, his mother had been the daughter of a prosperous goldsmith in Boston, and that he followed the same trade. It was of matters pertaining to this that he had reason to see one or two of the goldsmiths in Lincoln.
“I will not say it is for the sake of expediency that I combine my sad duty to my wife’s nephew with monetary concerns, but travel is hard at this time of year and I do not wish to make the journey more often than is necessary.”
“I trust Hubert’s mother will not be too distressed at the condition of her son’s body,” Nicolaa replied, feeling distaste for the man and his smugness. “I instructed my messenger not to tell her in too great detail how the boy met his death, but I fear the state of his flesh would be a shock to any mother.”
De Vetry sat up straighter in his chair, his complacency falling away. “Condition? I was told by my wife that he had met with an accident in the forest. I-we-assumed a fall from a horse while hunting, or some such. What happened to him?”
Nicolaa told her visitor of how Hubert had been found and what the crows had done to him. “He has been decently wrapped and covered, of course, but if you could find a way to keep his mother from too close an examination of her son’s body, I think it would be better for her peace of mind.”
De Vetry was shaken. “Of course, of course,” he muttered, quickly drinking down the remains of his wine. As Nicolaa motioned for one of the servants to refill his cup, the goldsmith struggled to regain his composure. “Then he was…he was…murdered, you say?”
“I think it most unlikely that he could have bound and hanged himself from so high a branch without assistance,” Nicolaa said dryly. “My husband believes that he surprised some poachers and was slain by them.”
De Vetry seemed to relax a little at her words but he still looked at her doubtfully. “Is that what you believe, lady? And Sir William, is he of the same mind as your husband?”
“Suffice it to say that the matter is being looked into,” Nicolaa replied. She rose from her chair. “But even though I advise that his mother does not see the boy’s body, some member of the family must view the remains, for piety’s sake. I am sure that you, de Vetry, will be willing to perform the task.”
