Afterwards, Bascot stayed for the recreational hour when the Templars were allowed to gather in the chapter house for general conversation until it was time for the service at Compline. Besides the preceptor, there were only four knights in residence at the moment: two who had just joined the Order and would soon be on their way to Outremer, one recently returned from the Holy Land after fulfilling a vow of atonement that had involved a promise to serve with the Templars for ten years-an arrangement that had been allowed by the Order on receipt of a gift of land from the penitent knight-and one lately arrived from Spain with despatches for d’Arderon. Old battles were refought, former acquaintances remembered and the politics of the struggle against the Saracens discussed, along with the hope of a good response to the call Pope Innocent III had made the year before for Christendom to undertake a new crusade.
Bascot enjoyed the evening and it had not taken much persuasion by d’Arderon to convince him to spend the night in the preceptory dormitory. Since it had been necessary that he and Gianni give up their small chamber in the older of Lincoln’s two keeps to guests that had come for the king’s visit, they were now sleeping in the barracks alongside the men of the garrison. Bascot knew that Ernulf would see Gianni safely in bed for the night and felt able to indulge himself in another cup of wine and more talk with his comrades.
It had been late when he had rolled himself up in his cloak and lain down on one of the hard pallets that lined both sides of the Templar dormitory, dimly lit all night by small oil lamps as commanded by the Order’s rule. Around him the other knights were also preparing for bed; the creak of leather and small clangs of metal the only noise as they took off the outermost of their garments and lay down still almost fully clothed, another rule that was scrupulously obeyed. Soon the large chamber was quiet, only the sounds of regular breathing and the occasional snore disturbing the silence. Bascot lay awake for a time, considering the path that lay before him. He felt pulled in two directions: Gianni and the boy’s welfare on the one hand, his vows to the Order on the other. The boy was dependent on him, had been since the day Bascot had saved him from starvation in Sicily, and Bascot admitted to himself that he would be reluctant to part from the lad, had come to regard him almost as a son. But Gianni was growing older, would soon be of an age to fend for himself, and in the meantime Bascot knew that if he left to rejoin the Templars, Ernulf, without family or child of his own, would care for the boy as well, if not better, than Bascot was able to.
As for the Templar Order, Bascot was beginning to feel a pull to return to its ranks. He had been happy here this evening, had experienced a sense of belonging that he did not feel among the household knights in the Haye retinue, despite his liking and respect for Lady Nicolaa. When he had arrived in Lincoln almost a year ago, he had been angry, at God and at himself. Then he had wished only for solitude, a place to try and forget all that had happened. It was for that reason that the Order had sent him to Lincoln and Nicolaa de la Haye. She had, at the request of the Templar preceptor in London, provided him with shelter and food so that he could have a space of time not only to recover his health and strength, but perhaps also his devotion to God and the Order. Now he wondered if he was, as had been hoped, beginning to do just that.
Or was he merely wishing for an easier path to follow? Staying on in Lincoln would invite responsibilities, not only for Gianni but in the matter of earning his keep. He knew that Nicolaa would be only too happy for him to retire from the Order and take up a post among her household knights, for she had hinted as much. He knew she valued his talents, had already taken to using him as a deputy in the many instances that required not only a man of knight’s rank, but also literacy, a rare commodity among the upper strata of society, and one that he possessed. There was also the matter of his successful apprehension of the alehouse murderer some months before. That he had felt satisfaction at his success and that both Nicolaa and her husband had been grateful to him had been obvious. And now she had once again set him to probing into a matter involving a secret slaying. Could it be that a fear of failing to solve this new riddle of death was the cause of his feeling such a strong pull to return to the Order? Was he experiencing, perhaps, not a return of faith but apprehension about the extent of his own abilities?
He burrowed deeper into the covering of his cloak, murmured a prayer for guidance, and then fell into a deep sleep. It was out of a dark dreamless void that the chaplain’s bell for Tierce woke him. The other Templar knights in the dormitory had already left their pallets to celebrate the earlier religious offices, and Bascot got up from his own bed and went to join them in the round chapel that was the hub of the preceptory, his confusion still unresolved.
It had been just as he was leaving the chapel after Mass and preparing to return to Lincoln castle that the man-at-arms sent by Ernulf had arrived and told of Tostig’s grisly discovery at the charcoal burner’s camp. The report was accompanied by a request from Nicolaa de la Haye to return as soon as possible. D’Arderon, who had come to bid Bascot farewell, listened gravely while the man-at-arms was speaking, his face concerned.
“I know you are under duty to Lady Nicolaa at present, de Marins, and must give her your assistance in this matter,” the preceptor said. “But don’t let it be so long before you come to us again. You belong here, with us, not out in the forest chasing murderers. The Order needs you, and so does God.”
Bascot acknowledged the sincerity in d’Arderon’s words and bade him a reluctant farewell before he turned his mount towards the gate and followed the man-at-arms back to Lincoln castle.
Earlier that morning Fulcher had emerged from the verge of that part of Sherwood Forest that abutted the banks of the Trent and crept in the predawn light down to the water’s edge, pulled out a small skiff from its hiding place in the overhang of undergrowth and poled himself across the river. He had been in Gerard Camville’s chase just as the pale winter sun was striking its first shards of light across the tops of the trees, and inside the sheriff’s buckstall a short time later. There were several deer trapped in the huge pen, ones that had been lured there by the mounds of tasty ivy and holly piled inside into leaping over the low fence, only to find their exit blocked by a deep ditch at the internal base of the barrier. Fulcher, straddled above them in the boughs of a tree that overlooked the pen, surveyed the frightened animals below him and chose a small female roe deer that looked to be in her first year. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he took her in the neck with one shot and leaped down into the enclosure to claim his prize. The rest of the deer, smelling blood, shied away to the far side of the buckstall, clustering together and milling about looking for a means of escape. Fulcher quickly removed the arrow from the dead doe, then slung the carcass up on his back before traversing the ditch and climbing the fence, throwing his burden down on the other side before jumping over himself. He stood still for a moment, testing the quietness of the forest before he once again heaved the dead deer up on his back and began to retrace his steps to the river’s edge.
He was breathing hard by the time he saw the glimmer of water ahead of him. Since leaving Talli and Berdo at the camp the night before he had travelled three miles to where the skiff was hidden, then another two to get into Camville’s chase. The lack of food combined with the loss of a night’s sleep had sapped his strength, but he knew he had to make it back across the river before he stopped. Once on the other side, he could hide the carcass, and then get Talli and Berdo to help retrieve it. He slowed a little and shifted his burden, took a deep breath and prepared to trot the last few hundred yards.
The small boat could just be seen bobbing quietly among the reeds when the first arrow struck the ground ahead of him. A second later he heard the baying of dogs. He was able to take two more steps before another arrow flew over his shoulder and thudded into the tussocky grass at his feet.
“Halt, or you’ll be deader than that deer!” a voice yelled. The barking of the dogs sounded closer now and Fulcher turned to see two mastiffs flying towards him, heavy jaws agape and slavering as they ran, teeth gleaming wickedly against their dark fur. Behind them, at the edge of the fringe of trees he had just left, were two foresters, their green tunics blending with the darkness of the foliage at their backs. Both had bows, nocked and drawn. Between them was another forest official, mounted on a large roan gelding.
“Yield!” the mounted officer called. “Or I let the dogs have you.”
The mastiffs were nearly upon him, the larger of the two in the lead, his powerful haunches propelling him forward with the speed of an arrow shot. Fulcher had no choice. “I yield,” he called loudly, dropping the deer and throwing up his arms.
It seemed an eternity before a shrill whistle halted the dogs. Fulcher could smell their fetid breath as they pulled up abruptly at his feet, fur bristling and teeth bared. Slowly the foresters moved towards him, grinning, enjoying his obvious fear of the dogs.
As the men came closer Fulcher saw that all three wore an emblem decorated with a royal crest on the front of their tunics.
“A good day’s hunting, I would say,” said the mounted officer. He leaned down in the saddle to look at Fulcher. “I am Copley, agister for King John. Although this is not my bailiwick, I think the sheriff will be pleased to learn that I have caught a poacher in his chase.”
