them the truth. People always want to gossip, and soon the story would have spread about the town.” Her head came up and she placed her hand on Ivor’s arm. “My nephew is a handsome man; there are many of my husband’s acquaintance that would be only too pleased to have him as a bridegroom for their daughters. Such a tale would have ruined his reputation.”
Bascot glanced at the faces of the rest of the family. Reinbald’s heavy face seemed to droop as he shook his head in exasperation, while Harald’s gaze was fastened downwards on the contents of his wine cup as though he wished it would swallow him up. Unlike the other two men, Ivor stared at the Templar boldly and placed his own hand over the one his aunt had laid on his forearm, as though in support of her actions.
“But, mistress,” Bascot said softly, “was not the tale you invented for your neighbours just as much a lie as the one you claim the potter told?”
“ Nei,” she said firmly. “No. I said it only to protect my nephew from that djevel ’s scurrilous tongue. I would never have said it otherwise. It is my duty to protect my dead sister’s sons and that is what I was doing.”
Finally, Harald spoke. “ Tante, do you not realise that the potter was doing just the same thing? Even though Ivor says it is not true, Wilkin most assuredly believes it is. He said what he did in a righteous attempt to defend his daughter’s virtue.”
“Virtue?” Ivor burst out. “The girl had no virtue left to defend, Harald. She had taken a brigand for a lover. What girl of modesty would do that?”
Bascot looked at the two brothers, so alike in appearance but so different in nature. Harald made no reply to Ivor’s statement but merely resumed his contemplation of his wine cup.
“Why did you not speak to the potter at the time he made the accusation against you, bailiff?” Bascot asked. “It is now almost two years since he first made the charge. Why did you not refute it?”
“That is what Preceptor d’Arderon asked me,” Ivor replied, his eyes hot with anger. “And I will tell you, Sir Bascot, the same as I told him. The potter is a peasant and has the clod-like mind of one. I did not think his lies, or the opinions of the other landless villeins he repeated them to, worthy of my attention.”
When Bascot left the merchant’s home a few minutes later, Reinbald accompanied him to the door and apologised for his wife’s discourtesy. “Please assure Lady Nicolaa that both I and my wife will comply with her request to attend the sheriff’s court and that we will give our evidence without reservation.”
As he walked back up Hungate towards the castle, the Templar reflected on how personalities within a family, despite similarities in appearance, could be so very different. The physical resemblance between Ivor and his brother Harald was strong, but their outlooks on life were almost diametrically opposed. Bascot did not think that Ivor, with his overwhelming sense of self-importance, had given one moment’s thought to the poverty-stricken state that awaited Maud le Breve’s old nurse, Nantie, but Harald had enough compassion to be concerned about her future homelessness and was doing his best to forestall it.
As he neared the castle, and was walking up Spring Hill in the direction of Bailgate, Bascot saw Roget standing by the corner of the fish market, talking to one of his guards. When the former mercenary saw the Templar approaching, he hailed him and asked if there was any news of when the sheriff might return.
“I will be glad to see him back, de Marins,” Roget said. “It is a little quieter in the town now that the potter has been arrested, but the citizens are anxious for him to be punished and are becoming unruly in their impatience.”
The captain rubbed his hand across his thick beard, causing the copper rings threaded in its strands to tinkle with a musical sound as they pushed together. “I must admit I would like to gut that batard myself. Even if it is my duty to keep him safe from those who would punish him, I have more than a little sympathy with them.”
Bascot understood the captain’s acrimony, especially after seeing the little body of Juliette le Breve and hearing Nantie’s witness of how the child had died. He felt the same way himself.
It occurred to the Templar that Roget might be able to help him discover whether Ivor Severtsson had been guilty of assaulting Rosamunde, and he asked the captain if he knew the bailiff.
Roget shook his head. “I have seen him about the town once or twice, but I have never spoken to him,” he replied.
“I would like to find out if there is any truth to the potter’s charge that Severtsson raped his daughter,” Bascot said. “Whether he did or not has no bearing on Wilkin’s guilt, for the potter believed it was so whether it is true or not, but I promised the preceptor I would look into the matter.”
Roget nodded his head in agreement. The captain was an unabashed lecher, but Bascot knew that, like himself and d’Arderon, he had little regard for any man who would sexually assault a woman.
“I would be interested to know if any women of the town are acquainted with him and have an opinion of his… proclivities,” Bascot said.
The captain gave him a straight look. “You mean you want me to ask the bawds in Butwerk if he is capable of rape, do you not?”
“Or any other women of the town who are known to give their favours lightly,” Bascot replied. “I am sure you are acquainted with more than one or two of that sort.”
Roget gave a wry grin. “That is true,” he admitted. “I will do as you ask, de Marins. Any man who would force a woman to his will needs to be revealed as the cochon he is.”
Bascot thanked Roget and resumed his walk back to the castle. The Templar knew it was a sin to harbour a desire to bring discredit to another, but if Ivor Severtsson was guilty of rape, it would give him great satisfaction to prove it.
Nineteen
Nicolaa’s hope that her husband would return soon was granted the next morning when, just before the hour of Sext, Gerard Camville, at the head of his retinue, rode into the bail. All of the horses were covered in a coating of dust, as were the cloaks the riders wore. The sheriff was a massive man, with muscles swelling at neck and thigh, and the stallion he rode was of the same large proportions. On his face was a bellicose scowl, and he glared about him as he rode up to the steps of the forebuilding and dismounted. Behind him was his son, the hood of his mail coat pushed back in the warmth of the morning air to display the flaming red hair that he had inherited from his mother.
The rest of the entourage rode to the stables and wearily got down from their steeds and gave them into the care of the grooms. The messenger Nicolaa had sent with news of Wilkin’s incarceration was with them, having met his lord as the sheriff was on his return journey.
All of them followed Gerard Camville into the hall, and servants were sent in haste to bring food and drink for the returning travellers.
Barely an hour later, a page came to summon Bascot to the sheriff’s chamber, and when Bascot mounted the stairs and knocked on the door of the room, he was surprised to find that it was not Gerard who awaited him, but his son, Richard.
The room he entered was slightly larger than Lady Nicolaa’s and strewn with belts, boots and tack for horses. Against one of the walls was a substantial bed, laid with a coverlet of wolf skin. Here there was no sign of parchment or the implements of writing; Camville was numerate, but his literacy was minimal, and he depended on his wife to attend to the many details that were involved in managing their vast demesne. Although, as her husband, he was lord over all of the possessions she had inherited from her father, he was an indolent man and was content to leave the administration of their lands to her, preferring to devote his time to the pleasures of the hunt. Included in the inheritance she had received from her father was the constableship of the castle, and despite the fact that Gerard nominally held the office, it was Nicolaa who was viewed as castellan throughout all of Lincoln. Both she and her husband were content that it should be so.
But the office of sheriff was viewed by Gerard in a different light. The post was a lucrative one, and he took his duties seriously and guarded his rights jealously. Any person who was misguided enough to break the laws that he upheld and foolish enough to get caught would reap his punishment quickly and without any show of mercy. The fate of Wilkin now resided in his hands.
Richard was sitting at a table that was laid with a chessboard and chessmen, a magnificent set that had been given to his father by the Henry II, sire of both King Richard and King John. Gerard was an avid player and
