session of the sheriff’s court was over. As Wilkin appeared, still in shackles, and was led down the steps of the forebuilding and back to the holding cell, it was obvious he had been found guilty. Not only his slumped shoulders and the deathly pallor of his face but the jubilant mood of the crowd that followed confirmed that what the beekeeper’s family feared had come to pass. Gianni heard Margot give a great sob from where she sat cradling her grandchild, and Young Adam clenched his teeth to avoid spilling the tears which gathered in his eyes. Even the baby, sensing the distress of the woman who was holding him, began to howl. Of them all, only Rosamunde sat unmoved, her blank stare unfocused, and her hands loosely folded in her lap.
In the hall, Bascot led the beekeeper from the huge room and kept beside him as they emerged onto the top of the forebuilding steps. The staircase was still crowded with people, and Bascot pushed his way through, his hand dropping to his sword hilt as one or two noticed Adam and began to berate the old man for having married his daughter to a filthy murderer. Their voices quietened as they saw the threat in the Templar’s eye until finally the pair reached the bottom of the steps and went across the bail to where Adam’s family was waiting.
Ernulf and two men-at-arms stood like a protective wall in front of the little group, but even so, many malicious glances were thrown in their direction as people passed them on their way to the gate. As Bascot and Adam came near, the Templar noticed Rosamunde’s head suddenly come up and her gaze alter from its mindless stare as her eyes began to focus on the crowd that was pushing past the place where she stood. Within moments, an animation filled her face and she jumped up from her seat and wedged her body through the space between Ernulf and the other soldier standing in front of her and darted across the ward.
Margot screamed in terror and yelled at Rosamunde to stop, but her mother’s anxious cry did not halt the girl, and she kept going, pushing people aside and heading deeper into the throng. Young Adam and Gianni raced after her, and Ernulf, in a stentorian voice, yelled at de Laubrec, standing on the far side of the queue of people, to halt the maid in her headlong flight. At the edge of the crowd, a group of castle servants that included Gosbert and Eric all turned their heads towards the disturbance as de Laubrec broke into a run to waylay the wildly running Rosamunde. Just as he reached her, however, she stopped, turning her head this way and that, as though searching for a face she had seen. By the time Young Adam and Gianni came up to her, with Bascot and the beekeeper close behind, she was standing completely still, her mouth moving as she uttered one word over and over again. “Drue. Drue.”
Adam took his granddaughter by the arms and drew her into the shelter of his own. Suddenly she burst into tears and bent her head to his chest. “She has done this before, Sir Bascot,” Adam said breathlessly, “one day summer afore last when she was in Nettleham village and a man on a horse rode by.” He heaved a sigh and tried to explain. “She thinks she sees the lad who was her lover and runs to meet him. We have tried to tell her that he is dead, but she does not understand.” Patting the girl on the back he spoke softly to her. “Come, Rosamunde, we must go home. You will be better there.”
Seemingly docile now, Rosamunde allowed herself to be led away, tears still streaming down her face. Even in distress, she is beautiful, Bascot thought, and as he glanced at de Laubrec, he could see the same admiration in the marshal’s eyes. It could not be wondered at that men would lust after her, or that those of corrupt character would, as her father claimed, succumb to the temptation of committing rape to possess her.
Ernulf and Bascot saw Adam and his small family onto the dray. As they settled Rosamunde into the back, Young Adam sitting between her and the open end of the wain to prevent her running off again, Bascot asked the beekeeper if they could manage the journey home alone, or if they would feel safer if one of the castle men-at-arms kept them company for the journey.
Adam shook his head. “I thankee, sir,” he said, “but we’ll be alright.” The old man looked about him. “ ’Tis ten years since I’ve been to Lincoln. My wife was alive then and we brought young Rosamunde to see the summer fair. It was a happy day, that one, not like this.”
He glanced over his shoulder at his granddaughter. “She was only a bit of a lass then, but even so, she was entranced with Drue. He and his brother were in the crowd, watching a dancing bear, and she pestered me to go and keep them company-”
Bascot interrupted him. “Did you say that Drue had a brother? I have heard no mention that Rivelar had more than one son.”
“Aye, he did, lord,” Adam affirmed. “There were two boys, Drue and an older lad named Mauger. Mauger ran away when he was about sixteen, just after the end of that same summer fair. Rosamunde said that Drue told her his brother had promised he would come back, but if he did, I’ve never seen him.”
The Templar had been puzzled that the brother had never been mentioned before, either by Dido when he told of the time he had been a rat catcher at Wragby, or by Richard Camville in telling of the trial, but when Adam had said that he had been gone from the area for many years, he gave it no more thought.
As Bascot and Ernulf stood by protectively, the old man manoeuvred the heavy dray through the eastern gate of the bail and out onto Ermine Street. The Templar watched them disappear in the direction of Newport Arch with a heavy heart. He waited there until the last of the spectators had filed through the gate and then looked down at Gianni, who had come to stand just beside him, seeing a reflection of his own emotions mirrored in the boy’s face.
“Come, Gianni,” he said. “It is nearly time for the midday meal. Perhaps you will feel better once-”
His words were interrupted by the appearance of one of the guards Roget had left on duty in the town. He was coming through Bailgate at a run, his face beaded with perspiration.
“What is it, man?” Ernulf asked as the guard came up to them and stopped to draw breath. “You look as though all the hounds of hell are on your tail.”
“There’s been another murder,” the guard said in a strangled tone. “I just found a man’s body, near a midden just off Danesgate. His throat’s been cut from ear to ear. I’ve come to tell Captain Roget.”
“Do you know who the victim is?” Bascot asked.
The guard, a rough and burly individual with a nose that was so flat it must have been broken more than once, nodded his head.
“I don’t know his name, but I know who he is,” the guard replied. “He worked for one of the fishmongers in the market near Bailgate.” He looked at the Templar and grimaced. “He’s a right bloody mess, Sir Bascot. Not only was his throat cut, his belly ’ud been ripped open from neck to navel. Whoever killed him must be a vicious whoreson.”
Twenty-three
It wasn’t until late that evening, when Roget came into the barracks with a flagon of wine under his arm, that Bascot and Ernulf heard more about the murder of the fishmonger’s assistant. The Templar and the serjeant were sipping cups of ale in the cubicle Ernulf used for his sleeping place and Gianni was dozing on a stack of blankets in the corner when the captain arrived. The air was heavy with heat from the small fire that Ernulf had lit in a brazier to take the chill out of the air, and it had made the lad drowsy. When Roget pulled aside the leather curtain that screened the serjeant’s quarters from the rest of the barracks, Gianni stirred, rubbed his eyes and sat up.
“Faugh! My nose and mouth are full of the stench of death,” Roget exclaimed as he hooked a stool from a corner with his foot and sat down heavily. He poured himself a full measure of wine from the flagon and drank it down thirstily, then he wiped his mouth and beard on the sleeve of his tunic before he spoke again. “First we have that batard of a potter poisoning people all over the town, and now that he is finally penned up in a cell, there is a crazed butcher on the loose with a knife.”
“The guard told me that the stabbing was a brutal one,” Bascot said.
“Brutal is not the word for it,” Roget replied. “The body had been gutted like one of the fish the man sold in the market.” He raised eyes that were bleak. “There was not much blood around the wound on his neck, but the ground was awash with it. From the heavy bruises on his mouth and jaw I would think he was disembowelled first and then held down for a space before his throat was slit. He must have been in great agony before he breathed his last. He was only about twenty years of age. It is a terrible way for anyone to die, but especially for one too young to have yet tasted all the joys of life.”
Both Bascot and Ernulf were taken aback by the captain’s description of the injuries. They were all inured to the wounds that were inflicted in battle, but what Roget was describing went beyond the deathblows that were a
