The sky was beginning to darken as evening approached and, although the sleety rain had ceased to fall, it was still very cold, with the occasional tiny flake of snow drifting down on the waiting throng. But no one seemed to heed the discomfort of the weather, for the gaze of all gathered there was concentrated on catching sight of Melisande and her agister being brought into custody.
As Richard led his mother in through the gate, Bettina, standing just inside its arch with her relatives beside her, stepped forward and sketched a brief curtsey.
“Lady Nicolaa,” she said in a voice that was hesitant, “may I have speech with you?”
Nicolaa looked down on the milkmaid, and checked her horse. “Can it not wait, girl? As you can see, I have much to attend to.”
“It is important, my lady, and cannot be delayed.”
Nicolaa gave her a brief nod. “Get on with it then,” she said.
Bettina raised up her courage and spoke clearly. “It is said you have taken Mistress Fleming and her agister in charge for murdering Sir William’s squire, but it is not so, my lady. They did not do it.”
A stirring of voices rumbled through the crowd, ending in a sigh as they all fell silent to hear what came next.
“How do you know this, Bettina?” Nicolaa asked.
“Because all of us in the village know who it was that murdered the squire, and it was not the goldsmith’s widow or her deputy.”
Bettina’s voice had begun to weaken, but it grew stronger as she caught Lady Nicolaa’s glance. Awareness that the castellan knew what she had been primed to say gave her the temerity to continue. “The man who committed the murder told us to stay within the compound and not go out into the forest while he dealt with the squire. And he told the Chards to do the same.”
“Why did John Chard, and you, not give this evidence when asked by my husband and Sir Bascot?” Lady Nicolaa asked, her voice stern.
“We were frightened, my lady. We had been ordered not to speak of what we knew. Then, when the charcoal burner and his family were killed, all of us in the village thought it right to be fearful, and so we did not speak for dread of our own deaths.”
Nicolaa leaned down in the saddle, but her voice still carried out over the crowd. “Then why have you come forward now?”
“Because our priest, Father Samson, found out our secret and said that if we did not tell of it, we would be committing a sin, a grievous sin, by letting innocent people be charged with a crime they did not commit.”
Nicolaa looked out over the crowd. They stood with bated breath, avid for more revelations concerning the murder of Hubert de Tournay. At the back of the group of prisoners behind her she could hear a stir of feet as Ernulf positioned his men across the open gate. There was in the air a taint of apprehension, and, from Melisande Fleming, an audible gasp of hope.
Nicolaa regarded the milkmaid, admiring the girl’s courage. Behind Bettina her kinsmen stood with uncertain looks on their faces, glancing apprehensively at the soldiers around them, but they kept resolutely to their places.
Finally Nicolaa spoke. “Then, Bettina, you had best tell me who it was that murdered Hubert de Tournay.”
Bettina swept her gaze slowly over all the company assembled there, taking her time, as she had been told to do, so that there should be no mistake as to the identity of the man she pointed out. Passing over the barons and squires gathered on the edge of the crowd she finally turned toward the line of men behind Nicolaa and Richard. Holding up her hand, she raised a forefinger and pointed it in steady accusation. “It was him. Sir Gerard’s forester, Tostig.”
As she called out his name, Tostig kicked his heels viciously into the sides of his mount so that it bolted and shot free of the press of prisoners and men-at-arms that surrounded him. With a curse, the forester drew the wicked blade of his hunting knife from his belt, and swerved the horse straight at Bascot.
The animal, wild-eyed and snorting, thundered across the bail. Bascot was well aware that the only chance a man on foot had to escape the flying hooves of an adversary’s mount was to wait until the last possible moment before stepping aside. If he could do that, others would bring the woodsman down. Murmuring a prayer, Bascot kept still, bracing himself to wait, focussing the vision in his sighted eye so completely on the hurtling animal that the people, the bailey, and even the sky, faded from his perception.
Just as it seemed that he could allow the iron-shod hooves to come no closer, a darkness, like a sudden cloud, flew between Bascot and the horse. Renault, who had been standing within the fringe of people closest to Bascot, had swirled the loosely draped cloak he had been wearing up into the air and over the horse’s head. The animal, already frightened, reared in alarm, sliding on its hind legs as it tried to stem its headlong flight. With an equine squeal, it lost balance, toppling over as Tostig frantically pulled on the reins in a futile attempt to control his mount. With a crash, and a pitiful whinny from the horse, it fell, pinning Tostig underneath.
For one brief moment there was silence, then Renault leaped forward and snatched up the knife that had fallen from Tostig’s hand. Breathing heavily, the horse shook its head free of the cloth that had blinded it and struggled to its feet. With quivering legs, it stood for a space before trotting away, head tossing and tail swishing.
Tostig lay still on the ground, his legs bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes, like the horse’s, were rolling, and sweat beaded his brow as he tried to lift himself, then fell back. A slow trickle of blood began to form at the corner of his mouth. The crowd in the bailey started to surge forward, but a voice that carried with a loud resonance gave a sharp command for them to keep back. Through the press Gerard Camville stepped and made his way to where the stricken forester lay.
Before he could reach Tostig, another figure streaked through the shocked throng. It was Joanna. She ran to Tostig and knelt by his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bascot moved to stand at Tostig’s feet. It was plain the forester was mortally hurt. There would be no recovery from such an injury.
Tostig had closed his eyes, but he opened them as he heard Joanna call his name. His gaze fell on Bascot. “Damn your heart, Templar. If it had not been for you, I would not have been found out.”
Joanna shook her head and, with one long slim hand, she smoothed the hair back from the forester’s brow. “No, my love,” she said quietly. “It is not the Templar you should damn, but my mother. May she be consigned to hell for this day’s work.”
The girl looked up to where Melisande still sat captive on her horse, frozen into place as she watched her daughter cry over the woodsman.
“It was you, Mother, who caused all this. You, and your love of gold and position.” Joanna threw back her head and laughed, a bitter sound that died in her throat and became a sob. “It would not have been seemly, would it Mother, for your daughter to marry a common woodsman? You wanted a rich merchant, at the very least. And all the while you were more base than the lowest serf, stealing the very revenues that the king pays you to protect. Well, Mother, now you shall have a just reward for your treachery, and so shall I. But I, at least, shall feel that my pain was worth it. Will yours be?”
The sheriff had reached Tostig as Joanna was speaking and, calling for a measure of wine, he knelt beside the dying man and held the cup to his lips. Tostig tried to drink, but it ran out of the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood that had begun to flow in a heavy stream. He coughed, and looked up at Gerard. “I am sorry, my lord, for failing you.”
“You did not fail me, Tostig,” Gerard Camville said gently, and Bascot was surprised to hear the compassion in his tone. “You have served me well and faithfully all these years. I will not forget that.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The words came with effort from Tostig’s lips as, with a shudder and a great outpouring of blood from his mouth, he died.
Twenty-nine
Bascot felt the tiredness in his bones as he made his way up the stairs to Nicolaa’s chamber. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. It was an hour past Compline and he had yet to give his report to the
