fervently prayed the evil knave who had murdered Elfreda would make no attempt to breach the castle walls.
In the castle scriptorium, the young boy who was the object of the Templar’s concern was also anxious, but not out of fear for his own well-being. A small, slim young boy of about fourteen years of age, with a head of dark curly hair and liquid brown eyes, he was seated at one of the lecterns the clerks used to carry out their tasks, making an archive copy of an accounting sheet from one of the Haye properties. With him were the secretary, John Blund, and an older clerk named Lambert who was Gianni’s tutor and also his friend. Lambert had taken the trouble to learn the sign language that the boy and his former master had used to communicate and, just a few months before, had compiled a book of the gestures for the use of a scion of the English nobility who had difficulty speaking because of a cleft lip and divided palate.
Gianni was bent over his task, but his concentration was not wholly on the document in front of him. His leave-taking from his former master had been a few weeks before, at Eastertide, on the fourteenth of April. It had wrenched the boy’s heart to watch his master leave to rejoin his Templar brothers, but the boy knew it was right that Sir Bascot do so. While Gianni was fully aware of his former master’s heartfelt regard, he was just as cognizant that the Templar’s soul belonged to the Order.
At first Gianni had found the new routine unsettling and had missed Bascot’s reassuring presence but, as the days went on, Gianni had grown accustomed to his new life. He slept in the barracks with the men-at-arms under the watchful eye of Ernulf, the veteran serjeant of the garrison. Ernulf had a gruff affection for Gianni and the boy knew he need have no fear of harm while the serjeant and the soldiers of the garrison, all of whom treated him with kindness, were nearby. Gianni’s days were spent in the scriptorium. Master Blund was also well-disposed towards his new clerk, even though the secretary could be a little stern at times. But his faded blue eyes would light with praise as he monitored Gianni’s work and his elderly face crease into a smile of pleasure at each new proof of his young assistant’s aptitude for the tasks he was given. All in all, Gianni’s future was one he could look forward to with confidence.
It was not his new circumstances that were causing Gianni concern, but the news Master Blund had related about how the murder of a prostitute had taken place in the Templar preceptory. The secretarius had related the conversation he had overheard between Lady Nicolaa and her husband, and that the castellan had suggested it might be one of the Templars in the preceptory who was responsible for killing the bawd. Gianni had no fear of his former master’s ability to defend himself in an open confrontation-the boy had seen the muscles that swelled in the Templar’s arms when he practised with a sword in the training ground of the castle bail-but if the murderer was one of the brothers in the Lincoln commandery, and Bascot came close to discovering his identity, his former master could be in danger of an attack by stealth. A knife in the back while Bascot took his night’s rest on his pallet, or was absorbed in prayers in the chapel-the boy’s vivid imagination conjured up a dozen ways that the life of the man he had come to love above all others could be snuffed out with the quickness of dousing a candle flame.
The boy turned away from Master Blund and Lambert’s scrutiny and, slipping down from the stool on which he was seated, walked over to a huge cupboard filled with rolls of parchment and scribing implements that stood at the back of the room. Determinedly emptying his mind of his fears, he shut his eyes tightly and, under the guise of sharpening the point of a new quill, sent a silent prayer heavenward, beseeching God to keep the Templar free from harm until he had ridden safely away to Portugal.
E ARLIER THAT MORNING, A L INCOLN PROSTITUTE NAMED Adele Delorme was startled out of sleep by a knock at the door. She was not a common harlot like Elfie, forced to earn her living under the protection of a panderer in one of the stewes in the lower part of town, but a woman of great beauty who, by using her physical attributes in a discriminating fashion, owned the house in Danesgate where she entertained a select number of wealthy men.
As Adele rose from her bed on the upper floor to respond to the knocking at her door, she mentally castigated herself for not replacing the maidservant who had left her employ a couple of weeks before. But the position required a girl who was willing to endanger her own reputation by working in the household of a harlot and also had the good sense to keep a still tongue in her head about the men who came to enjoy Adele’s favours. Such a discriminating servant was not easy to find and, so far, there had been no suitable candidates.
Hastily throwing a light cloak about her nakedness, the elegant prostitute went downstairs. Her caller stood close to the step, a hooded cloak partially shielding the face. It took Adele a second or two to rub the sleep out of her eyes and recognise her visitor but, when she did, she evinced surprise.
“I had not thought to ever see you again,” she said.
“Nor I you,” the caller replied. “Will you allow me to come in? I have an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”
Reluctantly, Adele nodded. “I suppose I owe you such a favour,” she said. “But you will have to wait downstairs while I get dressed.”
The visitor followed Adele into a small chamber just off the entryway. The prostitute bid her guest be seated in a comfortable chair and poured a cup of wine, which she set on a table near the chair.
“I will only be a few moments,” Adele said and, pushing back the thick locks of auburn hair that had fallen over her shoulders, hastened from the room.
As she made her way up the staircase to the upper floor, she was unaware that her caller had not waited in the chamber as she had bid but had, after a few moments, followed her up the stairs with stealthy steps. Nor, as she donned a kirtle of embroidered sendal, did she hear the door come softly open behind her. The first indication that she was not alone was when a length of strong leather cord encircled her neck and was pulled so tight that it choked off her breath. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the cord that was strangling her and she tried to scream, but to no avail. Within seconds, she was dead.
Adele’s body was not discovered until late in the evening when one of her wealthy patrons, an armourer, called at her dwelling for his regular appointment. Just like Elfreda, Adele had been garrotted, but this time additional injuries had been inflicted on the prostitute’s dead body. The armourer, a man of strong physical and mental constitution, nonetheless felt his senses reel when he saw what had been done to her. After ripping the harlot’s gown from neck to navel, the point of a sharp knife had been used to carve a symbol on the delicate flesh of Adele’s left breast. It was a cross pattee, the emblem of the Templar Order.
Eight
Though the weather over the preceding days had been exceptionally fine, the next morning dawned with a heavily overcast sky that promised rain. Well before report of the second prostitute’s death reached the preceptory, Bascot went to ask Preceptor d’Arderon if he would accompany him out onto the hillside and give his opinion on one of the mounts that Bascot had chosen to take with him to Portugal. Every Templar knight was allowed to have three horses; if they didn’t bring the animals with them when they joined, or if the mounts became incapacitated, they were provided by the Order. The preceptor had bidden Bascot take his pick from the steeds in the commandery and now that he had made his choice, he wanted d’Arderon’s approval of the animal that was to be his destrier. The preceptor was a good judge of horseflesh and his opinion worth having.
As the men-at-arms began to assemble in the middle of the commandery for Emilius’s inspection, the pair rode out of the preceptory gate and down onto the grassy slope below, Bascot paying particular attention to the gait of his mount. The horse was a sure-footed sorrel stallion. It was smaller in stature than some of the other destriers in the stable, but it had a solid stance and alert temperament. Bascot was confident it would serve him well in any confrontation with the enemy and it looked to have enough stamina to withstand a long journey. He had chosen another stallion, a mature grey that Hamo had recommended, as an alternate war horse, and a black gelding to use as a packhorse, leaving them both with the blacksmith to have new shoes fitted. As he rode the sorrel up and down the grassy stretch, guiding it into swift turns and abrupt halts, the preceptor sat atop his huge black destrier and watched Bascot put the stallion through the manoeuvres. D’Arderon’s wide muscular figure was immobile, but every so often his eyes would stray to dark clouds that were beginning to gather on the southern horizon. Bascot would, afterwards, think of those clouds as a dire omen of events to come.
Bascot felt more than a little concern for the preceptor’s state of mind. The death of the harlot and
