valued the set highly; he had been a familiare, or close companion, to King Henry, and still mourned his loss even after the passage of so many years. The chess pieces were of carved oak; half of them were stained and polished until they were almost black, and the other half had been left in the natural colour of the wood and covered with only a protective coating of oil. Each of the pieces had been set into a base of precious metal, the squat men-at- arms in pewter, the bishops, knights and castles in silver and the monarchs in gold. The board on which the pieces were set was a thick slab of oak, the surface inlaid with alternating squares of light and dark wood and the edges carved with a motif of scrolled leaves. The arrangement of the pieces indicated that a game was in progress, with a couple of men lying to one side after having been captured and the others in various positions on the board. It seemed as though the white side was losing; the black men-at-arms were fast encroaching on the king, and one of the two white knights had been taken.
The sheriff’s son looked up from his study of the pieces and greeted Bascot civilly before offering him a cup of wine. “Do you play chess, de Marins?” he asked.
“I used to play with my father many years ago,” Bascot replied, accepting the proffered cup, “but not since then.”
“Ah yes,” Richard said. “It is frowned upon by the church for its warlike aspects, I know, and because many are foolish enough to lose large sums wagering upon the outcome. I assume the Order does not allow it to be played within their ranks?”
Bascot shook his head. “It is not banned, lord, but it is not often that any of the brothers have time to enjoy a game.”
Richard picked up a white rook and fingered it thoughtfully. “My father and I began this match before we left for London.” He gave a regretful smile. “I have never beaten him yet, and it looks as though I will lose again this time.”
The Templar knew that Camville had rarely been bested at the game. Rumour had it that on one occasion he had lost a match to his wife, which had cost him the price of a gilded statue to St. Monica, the patron saint of mothers, for the castle chapel. Bascot did not know if the rumour held any truth, but there was a statue of the saint in the chapel.
Richard replaced the chess piece on the board and moved to take a seat in front of the small fire that had been lit in the huge grate on one side of the chamber, motioning Bascot to a stool nearby. The sheriff’s son then went straight to the heart of the matter he wished to discuss.
“My father is aware of all of the details concerning the recent deaths in Lincoln, de Marins, including the arrest of the potter, through the messages my mother sent. When the second missive reached us we were almost home, and after learning its contents, he decided that the matter must be dealt with swiftly in order that the townspeople will feel that justice has been served.”
Richard took a sip of his wine before he continued. “As soon as it can be arranged, a session of the sheriff’s court will be held to try the potter. Since I will be involved in conducting the trial, and you have been closely engaged with the matter, my mother suggested I speak to you and review the evidence against him.”
Bascot complied, taking an occasional sip of wine as he related all that had passed since the morning the clerk had died in the scriptorium. Richard listened intently, only interrupting the Templar on occasion to clarify the identities of the people who had been murdered. When Bascot had finished, Richard poured them both another cup of wine, contemplating what he had been told.
“The proof against the potter is certainly damning,” he said finally. “Not only was the means of making the poison found among his possessions, but he also makes the pots in which it was placed. It is a wonder he would be so foolish.”
He looked at Bascot with eyes that were very like Nicolaa’s, perceptive and patient. “My mother told me that she felt you are not entirely convinced of his guilt. Is it because of your measure of the man?”
“It was, lord, but this latest evidence of the reason for his resentment against those in the castle and priory seems to prove I am in error,” Bascot replied. “I had thought him honest enough, and not likely to risk putting not only his own life, but the lives of his family, in jeopardy. They will be in sore straits without his skill to sustain them.”
“But it is not uncommon for a man, if he becomes angry enough, to carry out acts that are ill-advised,” Richard objected. “Perhaps that is what happened with the potter.”
“It must have been. There is no doubt of his hatred for the bailiff.”
Richard mused for a moment. “Ivor Severtsson. I have heard his name before. It was he who gave the information that led to the arrest of a band of brigands, one of which was Drue Rivelar, the son of the previous bailiff of the Wragby property.”
“I have heard about the capture of the wolf’s heads, but not that it was Severtsson who assisted in their taking,” Bascot replied.
Richard got up and walked the length of the chamber, his wine cup in his hand, in the restless fashion his father often adopted. “Severtsson came privately to my father and told him of the crimes that were being committed by Drue, and that he and a few of his cohorts were the ones responsible for attacking and robbing travellers who use the road that passes by Wragby. He also gave information of when the next attack would take place, saying he had overheard Drue arranging it with one of the others in the band.”
Richard’s mouth turned down in distaste. “My father had no liking for Severtsson and told me that he felt the man’s cooperation was given not, as he said, out of concern for the welfare of the travellers but from envy of his master’s son. Perhaps my father’s estimate was correct, but the jealousy was inspired by resentment of Drue Rivelar’s liaison with the potter’s daughter rather than his privileged position.
“That was a difficult time,” Richard continued. “I remember well the day Rivelar’s boy and the others of the band were taken. A merchant, a draper who was bringing some bolts of cloth he had bought in Grimsby back to Lincoln, was killed, and his servant was badly wounded when he sprang to his master’s defence. My father’s men arrived in time to save the lives of the half dozen others that made up the party, but all bore injuries from the fray. After the brigands were brought back to the castle, John Rivelar came here almost immediately to protest his son’s innocence, but there could be no doubt of Drue’s guilt, and in accordance with the law, my father hanged him and the others without trial. Rivelar came every day for a week afterwards, accusing my father of overstepping the bounds of his office and threatening to bring a charge against him before the justices. My father had a little sympathy at first, for Drue was the man’s son, but eventually he lost patience and had him thrown out of the keep. It was a relief when Rivelar died a short time later.”
Richard stopped in his pacing and added, “It would seem that Ivor Severtsson is once again a source of grief to those who have the misfortune to come in contact with him, but, be that as it may, that does not excuse the potter for attempting to kill him.”
“No, it does not,” Bascot replied.
“My father intends to convene the sheriff’s court as soon as he has had notice of it posted throughout the town and summons have been sent to those who will give witness. That will not take longer than one day, and so the trial will most surely be held on the day following.”
As Bascot stood up and was preparing to leave, Richard added, “Even though the potter will be tried swiftly, de Marins, his punishment, if he is found guilty, will not be meted out until the evidence has been reviewed by the justices at the next assize. We were told in London that the justices will arrive in Lincoln at the end of the first week in May. If they are constant to the schedule we were given, it will not be overlong before the potter meets the fate he deserves.”
That afternoon Roget found that his rounds about the town had taken him near Claxledgate, the gate that led out of the city into the poor suburb of Butwerk. Since Butwerk was the district where most of Lincoln’s prostitutes plied their trade, he decided to go to Whore’s Alley and ask the bawds who lived there if Ivor Severtsson had ever had occasion to pay for their services.
Most of the stewe-keepers knew Roget and were wary of him. Although it was the town bailiff who had jurisdiction over the management of their brothels, the captain of Camville’s guard was a man who was well-known for his ruthless treatment of any who disturbed the sheriff’s peace. His sudden appearance in Whore’s Alley made them all uneasy.
While Roget’s presence may have caused trepidation among the stewe-keepers, the bawds were pleased to see him. Although he had never had the need to pay for the services of a harlot, they all knew him as a man who
