ordinance.
As he worked, de Stow’s brows were drawn down into a frown and his manner impatient. Usually of equable temperament, his men had noticed his foul humour for the last two or three days and been surprised when he railed at them for the slightest laxity.
One of the hammermen had opined that the moneyer’s testiness was due to their employer having to cope with extra duties since the death of his clerk, and the other workers had agreed. Only de Stow’s wife, Blanche, noticed that her husband’s ill humour had not evidenced itself in the busy days just after Brand’s murder but had, instead, coincided with the arrest of Tasser. With great effort, she kept her misgivings to herself and fervently prayed her husband was not involved in the silversmith’s illegal dealings.
Twenty-three
On Epiphany, the day celebrating the Magi’s adoration of the infant Christ child, the sky above Lincoln dawned clear and diamond bright. Long before the hour of Matins rang, the castle servants were astir and setting up tables in the hall for the morning meal, laying extra places with trenchers and wine goblets. Additional guests had arrived in Lincoln the day before, local knights of Gerard and Nicolaa’s acquaintance invited, along with their wives, to witness Richard and Eustachia pledge their intention to wed. Most of the guests had taken lodgings within the town, for quite a few maintained homes of their own in Lincoln, but those who did not have such amenities had been invited to spend the eve and day of the betrothal in the castle.
Neither Richard nor Eustachia appeared in the hall, food having been taken to their chambers for them to eat while they dressed for the momentous occasion. Lucia was also absent, joyfully helping her sister’s maid arrange Eustachia’s hair and gown.
On the dais, both Nicolaa and Gerard, neither of whom was usually given to ostentation in their dress, were sumptuously attired, as were Gilbert and Egelina Bassett. Both barons were wearing tunics emblazoned with their respective emblems; Camville’s that of two silver lions passant, and Basset his insignia of three gold chevrons. They chatted amicably with the guests seated alongside them as slices of cold viands and cups of small ale were served.
Once the meal was over, and the trestle tables and platters cleared away, Camville gave a signal to Eudo, and the steward motioned for a group of musicians waiting at the back of the hall to commence playing. As the strains of a popular hymn swelled above the heads of the company, Eustachia came through the door of the western tower of the keep. There was an appreciative gasp as she appeared. Her dark hair and pale olive skin glowed in contrast to the ivory silk of her kirtle and the creamy lace that covered her hair. Behind her came Lucia, dressed in a gown the colour of harebells.
As the two young women moved farther into the hall, the assembly noticed that Richard Camville had unobtrusively entered the huge room from the opposite side of the hall and was waiting for Eustachia in front of the dais. He wore a tunic and surcoat of vibrant green, and his flaming red hair, the colour of copper, shone beneath a silken cap of the same colour. His eyes were alight with pleasure as Eustachia moved forward to join him and, as he draped a magnificent cloak trimmed with vair around her shoulders, it was obvious he was well content to give his promise to wed the woman standing by his side.
The couple walked the length of the hall and out onto the steps of the forebuilding, followed by their parents, Lucia and guests. After descending the steep flight of stairs down into the bail, Richard assisted Eustachia onto the saddle of a gentle white mare caparisoned in the Bassett colours of red and gold and then mounted his own steed, a handsome roan whose tossing head set the bells attached to its harness jingling.
Once their parents and the other guests were mounted, Richard slowly led the entourage out of the eastern gate of the ward, across Ermine Street and into the grounds of the Minster. Behind them came the knights and upper servants of the Haye and Camville retinues, walking at a measured pace, followed by the rest of the household servants.
In the Minster, there was a great crowd of people. While the ill-tempered sheriff was not popular with most of the citizens in Lincoln, Nicolaa was held in high esteem and the townspeople had gathered as a mark of respect for her and her son.
At the main entrance to the cathedral, the archdeacon was waiting to add his official witness to the solemn vows Richard and Eustachia would exchange underneath the lintel of the massive doors. After they had given their pledges, the priest would give his blessing on their future union. The couple were to make the vow of verba de futuro-a promise to marry at some time in the future-but it was considered to be as binding as the pledge of verba de praesenti-a consent to be wed at that moment.
Once the vows were said and the blessing over, the archdeacon preceded the pair inside the cathedral and conducted Mass before the high altar. Richard and Eustachia knelt at the door to the chancel during the service and the witnesses stood in the nave behind the huge carved screen that separated them from the inner sanctum. As the service progressed, the church filled with the sweet smell of incense and at the end, when the choir lifted up their voices in praise of the Lord of heaven, a feeling of exultation descended on the assembly.
Later that afternoon, a meal fully as sumptuous as the one served on the day of Christ’s Mass was placed before the company. Bascot sat at his customary seat among the household knights while Gianni stood behind him in attendance.
As on similar occasions over the holy days, tumblers were cavorting among the tables, spinning coloured balls as they turned somersaults, and musicians were playing softly at the back of the hall while a troubadour stood in front of the dais and sang a romantic ballad to the newly betrothed couple.
The Templar tried to enter into the happy spirit of the occasion and, while he was pleased that Richard and Eustachia seemed truly happy with each other, he could not keep his thoughts from the night he had just spent at the preceptory and his conversation with Emilius, the Order’s draper.
On his arrival at the enclave the day before, Bascot had met the supplicant knight, a young man named Hugh of Sturton, and spent some time in conversation with him before going to join the rest of the brothers in the refectory for the evening meal. The Templar had been favourably impressed with Sturton; the young knight’s desire to serve Christ seemed earnest and he comported himself in a seemly manner. As they ate in the silence demanded by the Order’s Rule, Sturton had listened attentively as a Templar priest read a passage from the Bible.
Afterwards, in the hour allowed for a period of recreation, the situation in Tomar was discussed and how it was vital that the attempted encroachment of the Mus lims into Portuguese Christian territory be stemmed. Emilius, who had spent some years in Portugal before being sent to Lincoln to fill the office of draper-a post which made him second-in-command to the preceptor and involved the important duty of ensuring all brothers in the enclave conformed to strict rules of dress and appearance-told the others a little of the history of the region.
The castle at Tomar had been built about thirty years before, on a grant of land given to the Templar Order by a member of the monarchy of Portugal, together with another stronghold twelve miles south at Almourol. The two fortresses formed the first line of defence against repeated infidel attacks from the south. Emilius related some of the atrocities the heathens had inflicted on Christian villagers in the area-babies impaled on the point of a sword, women raped, and men disembowelled and left to die a lingering and agonising death. As Bascot listened to the draper’s report, his heart flooded with anger.
His blood had cooled somewhat by the following morning when he attended the chapter meeting and listened to Sturton’s quiet but resolute responses to the questions put to him by d’Arderon, Emilius and himself, but the sentiment that fostered it had not dimmed. Senseless killing, whether perpetrated by an enemy on helpless villagers or by means of secret murder, always inflamed outrage in Bascot’s soul. It was God’s right, and His only, to take the life of another without just cause. By the time he returned to the castle, he decided he would not wait until the morrow to question Tasser again, but do so as soon as the betrothal celebration was over.
The silversmith bore the full brunt of the Templar’s pent-up anger when Bascot went into the holding cell. Tasser was in an abject state; his cheeks were dark with days-old stubble and his fine clothes stained beyond cleansing. Confronted by the ice-cold gaze of the knight’s eye, he quailed in Bascot’s presence before the Templar spoke even one word.
