committed. The act of murder was itself a type of poison, reaching out a like malignant hand to taint all of those it touched.
Wilkin was overjoyed at the news, as was Everard d’Arderon. When Bascot went directly from the holding cell to the preceptory and told the older Templar knight that the charges against the potter would now be dropped, d’Arderon seemed to regain some of his old ease of manner.
“Our prayers have been answered, de Marins,” he said. “I shall send immediately to the apiary and ensure that Adam and the rest of Wilkin’s family are told he will soon be released.”
By the time Bascot returned to the castle, the servants who had been out in the countryside were coming back from their excursion, faces flushed and happy, and with a multitude of boughs bearing apple and cherry blossoms piled in the cart and wildflowers entwined in the tresses of the men and women. Kegs of ale were broached as the branches were tied to ropes and affixed to the top of the maypole, and the music of pipes and tabors accompanied the women as they picked up the ends of the ropes and began to dance in an intertwining fashion about the pole until it was covered in the fairy-like flowers. Food was brought out and laid on trestle tables, and everyone ate their fill as the dancing continued throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. It was a day full of merriment and laughter, and by the time night fell, all were sated with contentment.
The next morning, after attending mass, Bascot and Gianni went into the hall for the morning meal. John Blund was sitting in his customary place, just below the salt, and the Templar took a seat beside him. Now that the poisoner had been caught and the complement of household knights was back to its full strength, Bascot knew he could not delay his trip to London any longer. But first he hoped to resolve the question of furthering Gianni’s education. He asked Blund if he had had sufficient time to give the matter his consideration.
The secretary’s face brightened at the question. “I have given much thought to the matter, Sir Bascot, and have arrived at what I hope you will feel is an acceptable solution. It was my intention to seek you out this very day and tell you of it.”
Blund motioned to the empty space across from him, where Lambert, his assistant, usually sat. “Lambert is already at his tasks in the scriptorium, even though the hour is early. We have been sore pressed, in the absence of Ralf, to keep up with our duties because the many small chores to which he attended-sharpening quills, ruling lines on parchment, mixing ink and so forth-take up so much of our time. It is this situation that has prompted me to my suggestion.”
His faded blue eyes rested on Gianni as the boy hefted the jug of ale that was on the table and began to fill his master’s cup. “You told me that your servant already has some literacy, is that correct?” When Bascot assured him that was so, Blund went on to ask, “Do you think he would be able to fulfil those minor tasks of which I have just spoken? And perhaps even do a bit of copying of documents that are of minor importance?”
“Yes,” Bascot replied. “He has had scant scribing tools to practice with; it was necessary that he knew how to take care of them in order to prolong their use. As for the copying, he has spent these last few months improving his hand, and it is now almost as good as my own.”
Blund smiled with satisfaction. “Then here is what I would propose, Sir Bascot. It will take us some time to find a competent replacement for poor Ralf, and our work is piling up. Would you be agreeable to sparing the boy to assist us in the scriptorium for an hour or two each day? If so, in return, Lambert is willing to give the boy the same amount of time in instruction in the evening, after our day’s work is completed. I have already spoken to Lady Nicolaa about the matter,” Blund told him with a smile. “She told me she wishes to reward your servant for the part he played in uncovering the true identity of the poisoner and is more than willing to pay Lambert for these additional services out of her personal funds.”
The Templar glanced at Gianni and saw the excitement in the boy’s face. “I think, Master Blund, that your suggestion is an excellent one. Both my servant and I owe you our thanks.”
After Bascot finished his meal and left the hall, he knew there now remained only one task to be completed before he left for London. He would have to tell Gianni where he was going and why.
Bascot waited a few days before he told Gianni of his impending journey. He wanted to be sure that the boy was able to fulfil his duties in the scriptorium and also that the lessons given by Lambert were not beyond his limited knowledge. By the end of the week, Gianni’s enthusiasm for his tasks and his contented face told him that the boy was happy in his new role and would, Bascot felt, not be too distressed by his master’s absence.
The night before his departure, he sat the boy down in their chamber in the old keep and explained that he would be leaving Lincoln the next morning and the reason for his trip. As he had expected, fear had immediately darkened the boy’s expression.
“I promise that I will return, Gianni,” Bascot assured him, “but I cannot say when that will be. Until that time, you are to sleep in the barracks with Ernulf, and he will watch over you. Each morning, you will go to the scriptorium and carry out the duties you are assigned by Master Blund, and for the rest of the day, you will study the lessons that Lambert gives you each evening. Lady Nicolaa has assured me she will supervise your welfare.”
The look in Gianni’s eyes made his words sound hollow. Bascot felt as though he was betraying the boy even though he had explained that it was for Gianni’s welfare that he was about to take the step of leaving the Templar Order. As he sought for some way to reassure the lad, Gianni snatched up the wax tablet and wrote a few brief words on it and then handed it to his master. “Your heart is with the men of the red cross. It will break if you leave it.”
Bascot felt his breath catch in his throat. It was not for himself the boy was concerned, but for his master. He was not worthy to have such a lad for a servant, much less an adopted son.
The Templar had never, since the time they had met, laid a hand on the boy in any but the most casual of ways; he had seen the fear of men that lurked in Gianni’s eyes when he had first found him and knew that it stemmed from evil acts that he most likely had witnessed or even been subjected to. Now, he reached out a hand, laid it on the boy’s shoulder and gripped the thin flesh beneath his fingers with a clasp of affection.
“Sometimes God demands a sacrifice as proof of devotion, Gianni. I am sure this one will be well worth it.”
These words echoed in Bascot’s mind the next morning as he ordered one of the grooms in the castle stables to saddle a mount, and he felt comforted by them, relieved of any doubt as to the rightness of his decision.
On Ermine street, just a few miles south of Lincoln, a party of Templar knights was riding north-wards. They had left the guesthouse of an abbey near Waddington just as dawn was breaking, intending to reach Lincoln before the day was far advanced. At their head rode the master of the English branch of the Templars, Amery St. Maur. He was a man of some forty years, broad-shouldered and with a beard of dark brown. His slate grey eyes surveyed the world with a look of keen intelligence, but his mouth held a hint of humour in its thin curve, and while he had often proved his courage in battle, he was praised more often for his innate sense of justice than his military prowess.
The troupe reached the outskirts of Lincoln and skirted the walls on the westward side. As they approached the castle gate, the guard saw them and blew twice on his horn to signal their approach then sent one of the men- at-arms to tell the sheriff of the knights’ imminent arrival. By the time the knights clattered over the drawbridge and into the bail, Gerard Camville was standing in the ward to greet them. Across the expanse of the open space, by the stable door, Amery St. Maur saw Bascot de Marins.
“You are well come, St. Maur,” the sheriff said when the party had dismounted. The two men were well- known to each other since the time that one of Gerard’s brothers had gone on crusade to the Holy Land with King Richard a decade before. “I did not expect to see you this far north so soon,” Gerard said. “Just before I left London I had heard that you were in Canterbury, with the king.”
“Aye, I was,” St. Maur replied. “I attended the celebration of Christ’s resurrection at Eastertide and witnessed John and Isabella’s ceremonial crowning for the service, but I left soon afterwards. There is need for my presence at our enclave in York, and it is there I am bound. Since the journey took me through Lincoln, I thought I would stop here on the way to discuss with Lady Nicolaa a matter that King John mentioned to me while we were both in Canterbury.”
“My wife will be pleased to see you,” Gerard said. “Will you come and take a cup of wine with us?”
“Gladly,” St. Maur replied. “But first, I would have a word with de Marins.”
