The letter from the northern preceptories was put to one side as d’Arderon broke the seal on the letter from Thomas Berard. Inside the rolled up parchment was another letter, also bearing the Templar seal. The preceptor scanned the London master’s missive and tore open the other one, saying as he did so, “There is a letter from Master St. Maur enclosed with Berard’s. I am bid to read it with all haste.”
Amery St. Maur was Templar Master of England and, as such, a senior commander under the Grand Master of the Order, Philip of Plessiez. As the preceptor read through the letter, and Bascot and Emilius waited with barely restrained impatience to learn the contents, d’Arderon’s face became sombre.
“Master St. Maur has recently returned from Paris where he was attending a meeting with our French Master, de Coulours, and other senior brethren. He was in the London enclave when my message arrived.” D’Arderon looked at the two knights, his face wearing an expression of foreboding. “While St. Maur was in Paris, de Coulours gave him some information that he feels may be pertinent to the murders.”
The preceptor laid the letter on the table. “St. Maur says that de Coulours told him of an incident that took place in Acre a few months ago. A Christian man was killed in a brothel in a suburb of the town. The slain man was an Englishman, from Grimsby, and witnesses assert that he was killed by a Templar brother.”
Thirteen
Bascot and Emilius listened in shocked silence as d’Arderon told them what St. Maur had written. “The witnesses testified that not only is it a Templar who is responsible for the slaying of the Christian but that they are also certain he is, like the victim, an Englishman. Apparently, he and the dead man had been speaking together in the English tongue before an argument broke out between them. The squabble ended in a struggle between them with the Christian, whose name was Robert Scallion, dead on the floor. The Templar left before any attempt could be made to detain him. Scallion was, apparently, the owner of a sailing vessel, and traded mainly in onions that he purchased in the Holy Land and brought back to ports in France and England to sell. He was well-known in the brothel from previous visits to Acre and the other patrons in the stewe said he had just recently arrived in the port to lade his vessel with more stock.”
“But the identity of the Templar is not known?” Bascot asked.
The preceptor shook his head. “St. Maur says not, only that he is believed to be of knight’s rank. But because he is thought to be an English Templar, de Coulours thought St. Maur should be apprised of the matter. As you know, any Templar brother found guilty of killing a Christian would merit expulsion from our Order. If his identity is discovered, that is what will happen and he will then be liable for prosecution by the Christian authorities in Acre. The commander of the Acre enclave is investigating the matter, trying to find out if the charge is true. St. Maur says he will inform me immediately if any further information reaches him, but you can see the connection between this death and the recent murders in Lincoln…”
“Yes,” Bascot replied, and Emilius nodded his head. “By now, such a terrible piece of news will not only have become known throughout Acre but also, no doubt, have been conveyed to the dead man’s home port of Grimsby. If Scallion has family there and they have heard that their relative was slain by an unnamed Templar in a brothel, it is more than possible that one of them might feel a need to extract revenge for his death. If so, Lincoln is the closest enclave for the purpose.”
“Such a motive would tally with the circumstances surrounding the murders of the two women,” Emilius added with distaste. “Scallion’s murder took place in a brothel, hence prostitutes were chosen as victims. And the coins implying betrayal-if it was truly one of our brethren who committed this deed, then he is indeed guilty of treachery-not only has he murdered a fellow Christian, he has also dishonoured his oath of chastity.”
“Camville must be told of this news immediately,” d’Arderon said, “especially as you will need his writ to question any of Scallion’s relatives in Grimsby, de Marins. Since it is common knowledge in Acre, there is no need for the matter to be kept private within the Order.”
“I will go to the castle straightaway, Preceptor,” Bascot replied, rising from his seat. As he did so, Emilius asked the preceptor if he would now allow the contingent waiting in the enclave to depart. D’Arderon shook his head. “We do not yet have any surety that Scallion’s death is the cause of these crimes. Until we do, the men stay here.”
Bascot and Roget started out very early the next morning to ride to Grimsby, Camville’s writ safely stowed in the captain’s tunic. The port was nearly forty miles northeast of Lincoln and, if they kept their horses to a steady pace, they would reach it by mid-afternoon. Both men were riding mounts primarily used by messengers-Bascot’s from the preceptory stable and Roget’s from the castle-and capable of covering long distances at a steady speed.
The two men spoke little on the journey, stopping only to rest their horses occasionally and take a pull from the wine flask Roget had slung on his saddle along with a bite of the bread and cheese Bascot had brought from the preceptory kitchen. As they approached the port of Grimsby, situated on a narrow river called the Haven which emptied into the Humber estuary, the ground turned marshy. Grimsby had once been a small village but because of its sheltered position on the small tributary of the Haven-and hence the name of the little river-was fast becoming a thriving little town. Providing a safe harbour from the storms that often ravaged the North Sea, the port was used as a refuge for oceangoing vessels. That advantage, along with the copious quantities of fish its inhabitants were able to catch in their small boats, had swelled its importance to the realm and King John had granted the town a charter in 1201, allowing its inhabitants to enjoy certain privileges that were denied to hamlets less fortunately situated.
As they rode the last few miles, the salty smell of the sea filled the air. There were no walls encircling the port for the wide expanse of marshy ground surrounding the town provided ample defence against any attack by an enemy force. The rippling ground of the flatland was covered in clumps of couch and marram grass on either side of the road, interspersed here and there with wildflowers, the most predominant of which was yellow-wort, the flowers of which were used to make dye. The air was filled with the noise of the birds that proliferated in the marshland, mainly ringed plover and curlews, and they passed several small groups of men and boys reaping a harvest from snares that had been set to trap the fowl. Above them, the strident calls of terns wheeling in the clear blue sky added to the cacophony.
Soon, the port lay ahead of them and, beyond the rooftops of the houses gathered along the few streets of the town, the masts of several ships riding at anchor in the swelling tide could be seen. When they reached a small stone shed set alongside the approach to the main street, they asked the guard inside for directions to the house of the town bailiff, Peter Thorson. The bailiff was known to Gerard Camville and the sheriff had told them to ask for his assistance.
The guard nodded and pointed towards the harbour. “Thorson’s house is the one that overlooks the port,” he said. “Two stories high and has three scallop shells on the door.”
The two men rode down the main street. The town was small, not much more than a village, but seemed orderly. As they dismounted in front of the house that had been described to them, the smell of the ocean and its overlying odour of fish was strong.
Roget wrinkled his nose. “Faugh, what a stench. I hope our journey here has not been wasted, mon ami. I have never liked being near the sea, it reminds me of too many battles fought on shipboard along the coast of Outremer when I was in the army that followed King Richard on Crusade. I cannot swim and think the only reason I survived was because I was more fearful of drowning than being skewered by an enemy sword.”
Bascot laughed. “I doubt there will be any need for you to board a ship here, Roget. If there are any suspects to be had in Grimsby, it is most likely they will be found on dry land.”
“And for that, mon ami, I will be truly thankful.”
As the templar and Roget were commencing their enquiries in Grimsby, Gianni was sitting at one of the lecterns in the scriptorium of Lincoln castle. His attention to his work was distracted as he tried to capture the fleeting thought that had so elusively slipped from his grasp the day before while he had been listening to the conversation between Ernulf and Roget. The exercise had cost him a sleepless night on his pallet in the barracks and, as he copied out various records of tenant fees paid into the Haye coffers, continued to elude him.
