open the door of the solar and looked about the large room for Lady Nicolaa.
The chamber was almost empty. It was used primarily by the castellan and it was here, when she had female guests, that she entertained them. There were a number of beautiful tapestries on the walls and comfortable settles placed about the room. The pleasant aroma of cloves emanated from a small brazier burning in one corner. Some of the senior members of her household retinue were also permitted to take a part of their leisure hours within the chamber and now, at the far end of the room, the mistress of the wardrobe sat with two of the castle sempstresses conversing quietly among themselves.
Lady Nicolaa’s diminutive figure was seated in a comfortable chair at the opposite end of the chamber, in front of a fireplace heaped with lengths of wood but, due to the warmth of the weather, was unlit. Gianni didn’t know whether to enter the room or wait until someone saw him but his dilemma was soon resolved when the castellan turned her head in his direction and beckoned him to come forward. When his reluctant steps brought him up beside her chair, she gave him a smile.
“I usually take a cup of hot cider at this time of the day,” she said. “On the table over there you will find a newly filled jug. Pour me a cup and, if you would like to taste it, you may take a small measure for yourself.”
With shaking hands, Gianni did as she had bid, almost spilling the fragrant apple drink as he carried it to where she was sitting. When he had poured a drop in one of the cups for himself, she motioned for him to be seated on a stool near her feet. He noticed some rolled up sheets of parchment lying on a small table beside her chair. They had been secured with a length of yellow ribbon.
“When Master Blund gave me the message you wish passed to Sir Bascot,” she said, “I read with interest your comments about Jacques Roulan and the possibility that his entry into a monastic order may be connected to the recent murders.”
Gianni held his breath. He was too nervous to take a sip of the steaming cider and the heat of it through the sides of the fragile pottery cup was burning his hand. With a thudding heart, he waited for Lady Nicolaa to continue.
“Your hypothesis hinges, of course, on whether or not it was the Templars that Roulan joined. Since I felt it would be wise to first ascertain whether that was so before I passed your message on to Sir Bascot, I sent for my bailiff at Brattleby, the one whose conversation with Lambert set your thoughts in motion.”
Nicolaa paused for a moment and took a sip of cider. “I spoke to my bailiff today and it seems that it was, in fact, the Templar Order that Jacques Roulan entered and that his reputation was every bit as licentious as the original remarks implied. Even though my husband is, at the moment, making enquiries that might lead in quite a different direction, they have not, as yet, proved conclusive and so I have decided that your suppositions might just possibly be relevant.”
Nicolaa noticed that her assurances made the young lad relax. He had been fearful, she knew, that his request would seem impudent. But she had come to have a great regard for the Templar’s intelligence during the two years he had been in her service and thought that this boy, whether the talent had been imparted by his former master or stemmed from his own abilities, showed promise of being cast in the same mould. She was also aware that the lack of Bascot’s protection had made the boy insecure and it was her intention to try and bolster the boy’s confidence. She had promised the Templar that she would oversee Gianni’s welfare and had every intention of doing all she could to ensure her pledge was fulfilled.
Reaching out, she picked up the roll of papers. “To that end, and because the Templars may have information about Jacques Roulan that I, or my husband, are not privy to, it is best that Sir Bascot be told of your conjectures. I have here the notes you wrote and a covering letter detailing my conversation with my bailiff. In the morning you will take it to the Templar enclave and give it to your former master. When you do so, you can answer any questions he may have about the content.”
Gianni’s face went white with panic. Surely the castellan knew he was too young to be admitted to the preceptory. How could he ever complete the task she had set him?
Nicolaa smiled, well aware of the reason for the concern so obviously delineated on his face. “Gianni, although you do not know the exact year of your birth you must, by now, be about fourteen years old. Many of the squires in my husband’s retinue are the same age,” she told him in a mildly admonishing tone, “and are given a man’s responsibilities. You even have the beginnings of down on your upper lip to prove you are past childhood. You will not be barred entry into the enclave.”
Gianni’s hand flew to his lip. He never had occasion to see his reflection except blurrily on the surface of the water into which he dipped his hands every morning to sluice his face. As he touched the narrow ridge of fine black hair, Nicolaa saw his shoulders unknowingly straighten and hid her amusement. She remembered how her son Richard, as a child, had longed to scrape his face with a blade in the way his father did and his delight when his beard began to grow.
She handed him the sheaves of rolled up parchment and Gianni tucked them into the breast of his tunic with great care. “Because of your inability to speak, Serjeant Ernulf will go with you to the preceptory tomorrow morning. He can explain your errand to the guard and so gain your admittance. While you are with the Templar, record any comments he may wish to convey to me on your wax tablet, and bring them to me when you return to the bail.”
Gianni rose from his seat, carefully set down the cup of cider he had been holding and gave Nicolaa a solemn bob of his head. As he walked towards the door of the solar, the castellan fancied that his strides were much lengthier than those he had taken when he came in.
Eighteen
Overnight there was a thunderstorm. The preceding few days had become unseasonably warm and the air had become oppressive. Just after midnight, loud rumbles began in the heavens, followed by lightning that lit up the sky. The ensuing cloudburst was of short duration but intense. By the time dawn arrived the storm had moved off to the west, but the dusty earth of the ground was covered in a heavy moisture which ran in rivulets over the hard- packed dirt of the training ground in the commandery.
Immediately after the service at Prime, d’Arderon told Hamo to bring Alan of Barton to his office. When the young man-at-arms came in, he found Bascot and Emilius with the preceptor.
D’Arderon was seated behind the table he used for a desk, and bid the soldier stand on the other side, facing him. Bascot and Emilius were standing by the window. With an apprehensive glance at the two knights, Alan obeyed the preceptor’s order and took up the position as directed. The young soldier was of middling height, with a ruddy face and sparse beard of a dirty brown colour. High on his cheek was a boil that looked ready to burst.
“Your record states that you hail from a village near Barton on Humberside,” d’Arderon barked. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, Preceptor, it is,” Alan replied.
“And your father’s trade is that of creel and net maker?”
Again the young soldier answered in the affirmative.
“His customers-they are men who sail along the Humber, to the ports at Hull and Faxfleet?”
Alan nodded and said, “Yes, my father is a good tradesman. He has a lot of customers among the fishermen.”
“Are most of his patrons known to you?”
With a puzzled look on his face, Alan nodded.
“Was a man named Robert Scallion among them?”
Although seemingly still confused at the reason for d’Arderon’s question, Alan answered readily enough. “I know the name, Preceptor, but Scallion was a trader, not a fisherman. He would have no need of my father’s wares.”
“But you say you know his name. Did you know the man?”
Alan shook his head. “I saw him once, when I went across the Humber on the ferry to Hessle to deliver some of my father’s baskets to a customer there. Scallion was speaking to some men on a boat alongside the one my father’s customer owned and I heard one of the men say his name. I knew who he was, for most of the traders who travel across the ocean are well-known in the fishing community, but I have never spoken to him.”
