fashion.
As Bascot sat on the block, he thought back over the dream that had been the cause of his wakefulness. Aware that it was common for a dreaming mind to throw up bizarre images of objects and happenings experienced while awake, he made an attempt to clarify the ones that had appeared in his dream in case they should have some relation to the mystery he was trying to solve. The whirling orbs reminded him of something, but of what he could not discern. And why had his old tutor had a halo above his head? A kindly man he had been, most certainly, but not a candidate for sainthood. And, if the instruction that had come into his mind as he had awoken did, in fact, bear some relation to recent events, what verb was he meant to conjugate? Although the dream had been a powerful one, nighttime illusions were often capricious. It could simply be that the image of his tutor had been caused by recent thoughts of Gianni and the lessons the boy was learning. He wished Gianni were with him now, the lad’s recent studies might give him some insight into the echo of scholastic instruction he remembered from his childhood.
The Templar returned his mind to yet another review of the scant evidence they had managed to obtain, and recalled Agnes’s description of the cloak clasp worn by the man she had seen knocking on Adele Delorme’s door. On it had been a picture of St. Christopher. Was this the saint to which his dream referred? But, if so, how was the saint linked to the circles of light whirling around the figure of the monk?
Suddenly, Bascot held his breath and retuned his gaze to the wheel, recalling how he had been attracted by the motion of the rolling wheels on the dray that he and Roget had passed on their journey to Ingham. The turning discs in his dream had been very like wheels, spinning in the brightness of the sun as the driver urged the horses to a faster pace on the stretch of road. The Latin word for wheel was rota; the French, rouet. But these were nouns, the directive had been to conjugate a verb. Mentally he ran through verbs describing the spinning motion of a wheel. In Latin-versare, volvo…, in French tourner, rouler… He stopped. If he conjugated rouler-to roll-he came to ils roulent-they roll, which was almost identical phonetically to the name of the family to which Julia and Savaric belonged-Roulan.
He held his breath as he let the essence of the dream carry him to further suppositions. Many people’s names indicated their appearance, but often it was a habit or possession, or their family’s role in society. His own name-de Marins-denoted, in French, a maritime connection because his family had always held a castle protecting the seashore. Robert Scallion’s name was derived from the onions in which his sire and grandsire, and Robert himself, had traded. Was it the same for the Roulans? Had the wanderlust that seemed an integral part of Jacques’ character been inherited from forbears whose inclination to rove had earned them their name? It could be so-rolling wheels meant travelling and that was certainly what Jacques had done. Herve had said his brother had “roamed far and wide to take his pleasure.” And the patron saint of travellers was St. Christopher, the very image Agnes had seen. It would be an obvious saint for a family with such a cognomen to adopt. Were these the connections that the dream had been attempting to convey?
If he accepted the validity of the thought, he must reconsider Julia and Savaric as suspects even though they had not been seen in Lincoln during the pertinent times. Sitting completely still and silent in the dark, that is what he did. Was it possible that one, or both of these two people, had embarked on a horrific plan of extracting revenge for the death of Jacques in the Holy Land? Mentally, he shook his head in negation. The idea was implausible. Jacques had not been killed by either a harlot or a Templar brother. He had not even died in battle, but simply from a wound inflicted by his horse, an injury that could happen to a man in any walk of life, and had no connection with either prostitutes or the Templar Order. Why would either of them, if they felt the need to expunge their grief, commit these murders as a means of doing it? But he could not dismiss the idea, it was the only lead he had. Doggedly he carried on, thinking carefully back over Dunny’s description of the dead knight.
He recalled the sailor describing Jacques’ apparel and the conversation with Robert Scallion that had evolved into an argument with such deadly consequences for the boat owner. He then reviewed the visit he and Roget had made to the Roulan manor house and what had been said by the members of Jacques’ family. One of the most memorable instances was how Julia had reacted when the drunken Herve had slighted his brother’s character. What had she said? “Have you no compassion for our brother? I wish it was you who suffered-” Gilbert had cut his sister off at that point, interrupting her flow of speech. In retrospect, Bascot thought she seemed to speak of Jacques as though he was still alive, but both Savaric and Gilbert had said he was dead. Had they been telling the truth? Had Jacques, as Joan Grimson believed, escaped retribution for the crime of killing Robert Scallion and returned to England? Was he even now hidden somewhere at Ingham, or in the deserted building the Haye bailiff had spoken of at Marton, shielded from the outside world by the rest of his family? If so, it was a plan doomed to failure. He could not stay hidden indefinitely. Sooner or later he would be seen, if only by a servant, and the news would spread. When that happened, and because of Joan Grimson’s accusation, he would eventually either be brought to answer for his crime or, at the very least, shunned by everyone who knew him.
But the Roulan grief had appeared too intense for it to be false. There had been real sorrow mixed with the anger in Julia’s voice as she had castigated Herve. It could not be doubted that, as his family asserted, Jacques was dead.
Bascot leaned back against the wall behind the wooden block on which he sat, trying to find a comfortable position that might help compose his leaping thoughts. As he did so, his hand fell on the blacksmith’s gloves and apron that lay on top of the anvil beside him. Almost simultaneously, he dislodged some wooden planks that had been laid to rest vertically between two nails hammered into the wall. They fell with a loud cracking noise onto the stone of the floor, reminding Bascot of a sound he had heard recently. The small incident caused his thoughts to coalesce and, with a simplicity that now seemed devastatingly obvious, the last piece of the puzzle surrounding the murders fell into place.
He stood up quickly, ignoring the sentry who had been alerted by the noise of the falling wood and was coming across the training ground to investigate. With haste, the Templar retraced his steps to the dormitory, intent on rousing d’Arderon.
Twenty-six
Barely an hour later, Bascot and Emilius were crossing the Fossdyke and riding to Torksey, beyond which lay the Roulan property at Marton. After Preceptor d’Arderon had listened to Bascot’s conclusion of who had murdered the harlots, and why, he had readily given permission for the Templar to prove his theory. D’Arderon had, however, sent for the draper, insisting Bascot take Emilius with him.
“If what you propose is true, the responsibility lies with us, as Templars, to arrest this man, and you will need another brother with you to bear witness,” d’Arderon had said.
Emilius was more than willing to go. “It is, as you say, Preceptor, our duty, for even though this man is no longer a brother, it must be publically shown that the Order would never have conspired to shield him from punishment for his evil actions.”
Bascot had then stressed the need for haste. “We must leave straightaway, Preceptor,” he said. “It may be that because Roget and I went to Ingham yesterday, the family has been alerted. If so, they may take steps to ensure he is gone from Lincoln. The quicker we get to Marton, the better. It may already be too late, but if we get there before anyone is astir, we may just be in time.”
D’Arderon nodded. “Go now. I will send a message to Camville immediately. It should not be too long before he sends some of his men-at-arms to follow you.”
Not a quarter of an hour later, Bascot and Emilius were astride mounts and riding through the gates of the enclave. They had taken only a scant few moments to arm themselves and don conical helms. To have taken the time to garb themselves in hauberks and hoods of mail would have used up precious minutes that Bascot was not sure they could afford. The preceptor’s final words rang in their ears as they put spurs to their mounts. “May God strengthen your purpose,” he said. Both Templar brothers fervently hoped his prayer would be heard.
Dawn had already broken and the sun had started on its skyward path by the time they reached Torksey. Marton lay only a couple of miles to the northeast and, as they approached the Roulan property, they dismounted in a stand of oak and beech trees a small distance from the rundown building that Nicolaa’s bailiff had mentioned. The smell and sound of pigs reached them as they secured the reins of their mounts to a tree and walked quietly through the small wood to where the animals were penned.
