Sins of Inheritance (Templar Knight Mysteries Book 9)
Author: Ash, Maureen
Date: 2017-03-05
Publisher: UNKNOWN

Sins of Inheritance

A Templar Knight Mystery

By

Maureen Ash

Templar Knight Mysteries

The Alehouse Murders

Death of a Squire

A Plague of Poison

Murder for Christ’s Mass

Shroud of Dishonour

A Deadly Penance

The Canterbury Murders

A Holy Vengeance

Copyright  ©  Maureen Ash  2016

All rights reserved. Maureen Ash asserts the right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Principle Characters

Bascot de Marins – A Templar Knight

Gianni – Mute Italian boy, former servant to Bascot, now a clerk in castle scriptorium

Nicolaa de la Haye – Hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle

Gerard Camville – Lady Nicolaa’s husband and sheriff of Lincolnshire

In the Castle

Miles de Laxton – Knight

Roget – Captain of town guard

Clare – Sempstress

Lambert – Secretarius

Ewan - Clerk

Ernulf – Serjeant of garrison

Eudo – Steward

Rollo – Man-at-Arms

Templar Knights

Feradac MacHeth – Preceptor of Lincoln commandery

Geoffrey de Rennes – Preceptor of Temple Bruer commandery

Morgan ap Griffid – Knight in Temple Bruer

Lincoln Townsfolk

Edward Tisser – Draper

Mary Tisser – Edward’s wife

Adam Tisser – Edward’s brother

Bracel – Edward’s clerk

William of Blois – Bishop

Brother Jehan – Infirmarian of All Saint’s Priory

Italians

Arrigo Teramo – Emissary to Lincoln

Enzu – Teramo’s servant

Collingham Village

Corbin – Reeve

Father Steven – Priest

Nottingham

Robert de Vieuxpont – Sheriff

Sybil de Morville – De Vieuxpont’s aunt

Father Timothy – Priest

Martin Tisser – Weaver

Gode Tisser – Martin’s brother

Peter and Anne Vetir – Draper and his wife

Richilda Thornton – Sister to Edward’s mother, Emmaline

Clifford – De Vieuxpont’s secretarius

Laine – Sheep farmer

Grimsby

Peter Thorson – Bailiff

Mistress Thorson – Peter’s wife

Nils – Seaman

Anker – Fisherman

Italy

Berardo di Marsi - Count

Rinaldo di Marsi – Berardo’s cousin

Umberto di Marsi – Rinaldo’s missing son

Cettina Sclafani – Rinaldo’s second wife

Lupo di Marsi – Cardinal

Father William – English priest

Marco Ferrero – Sicilian friend of Rinaldo

Deceased Characters

In Lincoln:

John Tisser – Edward’s father

Gilbert Tisser – Edward’s uncle

CHAPTER 1

Lincoln, May, 1205

Edward Tisser, a prominent draper in the town, was striding about the bedchamber with impatient steps as he directed a manservant to make haste in packing a change of clothing into a leather satchel. His wife, Mary, a pleasant-featured young woman of affable temperament, was standing in the doorway, staring at him in astonishment.

“Do not linger over niceties,” Edward said to the servant. “I do not need much, just an extra pair of hose and a change of undergarments. And another pair of shoes,” he added and nodded in satisfaction as the servant included the footwear. “Now go downstairs and see that my horse is saddled and tell the cook to prepare some bread, cheese and meat along with a flagon of wine to take with me. I will be leaving shortly.”

As the harried servant left the room in a rush, Mary could contain her confusion no longer. “Edward, what are you doing? You cannot start out on pilgrimage today. There are matters that must be attended to before you go on such a long journey. You are due to go to Coleby this morning to approve the samples you ordered from the weaver there and, besides that commitment, you have many others in the next few days, including making ready for the cloth fayre next month. You cannot leave now.”

Edward reached for the small coffer in which he kept money and, opening it, took out a quantity of coins and transferred them to the scrip on his belt, then gave the key into her safekeeping. “Bracel can go to Coleby and inspect the samples. He has been our family’s clerk for many years and knows what is required almost as well as I do. And he can also take care of all the other matters. I have told him he may hire a temporary assistant if need be.”

But Mary continued her protest, now in a different direction. “Why hire another employee when Adam can help him? It is a waste of money.”

“No,” Edward declared. “Adam is not ready. He is too young to take on the responsibility.”

“Your brother is eighteen now and almost the same age as you when your father died and you took over management of the drapery. And he is eager to help.”

Edward shook his head in negation and Mary had no choice but to accept his decision. This was an old argument between them and one she knew full well, from past experience, it was useless to pursue further. Her husband seemed fond of his brother, and treated him with courtesy, but every time she suggested that Adam be taught the rudiments of the trade in which Edward was so successful, she was met with the same obstinate refusal.

“It is unfair of you to expect Bracel to manage all of your affairs. Our more affluent customers expect to have the owner of the business tend to their needs, not his clerk. We will be in ruins by the time you return.”

“Nonsense,” Edward replied. “Bracel oversees everything when I travel to a cloth fayre in London or Paris, and he does it well. Our patrons will have no cause for complaint.”

Mary rarely lost her temper, but she did now, and stamped her foot. “You are being ridiculous. Your usual journeys abroad are made at a fast pace on horseback. You are never gone for more than two or three weeks. But the pilgrim band with whom you intend to travel are on foot and the pace will necessarily be slow. You will be gone for a long time, perhaps months. And the summer fayre here in Lincoln accounts for a large part of the business; you must be here to ensure all goes well. However competent Bracel is, he is still only a clerk. By all means go to the shrine of St. James in Compostela if you have to, but wait until you have put your affairs in order before you set out.”

Edward’s dark brown eyes were full of misery as he answered her. “I cannot wait, Mary. Out little Dickon almost died two nights ago, and I must go and plead with St. James for his intercession to make our son well.”

He turned to her and spoke intently. “Does it not say in the bible that the iniquity of the father will be visited on his children to the third and fourth generation? That is why little Dickon suffers; he is an innocent and it is my stain he bears. Only St. James can help him.”

“What iniquity are you speaking of, Edward?” Mary demanded. “What have you done that is so terrible?”

Her husband shook his head. “It is better you do not know. The burden is mine alone to bear.”

Seeing the misery on his face, Mary ceased to harangue him. Edward had always been impulsive in temperament and once he formed an idea in his head, it was nigh on impossible to dissuade him from acting on it. He might be right, she conceded, for their two older children, Beatrice and Anne, had been healthy all their short lives while their youngest, little Richard, had been sickly from the moment he was born, his chest so weak he could barely breathe despite a constant dosing of a variety of remedies suggested by a well-respected local physician. But even if this mysterious sin of Edward’s was the cause, she had a presentiment that her husband was being too hasty in his decision.

She shook her head. It had been the occasion of a party of pilgrims passing through Lincoln that had put Edward in such a fever to go to Spain. He had seen them yesterday on Mikelgate, the main street in the town, and, after speaking with them, had been filled with a desire to join them. Late that evening, and after they had left to continue their journey, he had gone to see the priest at the church the family attended and, by means of a hefty donation, persuaded the prelate to bless his intention and provide him with a pilgrim’s staff and wide-brimmed hat. She looked to where they lay on the bed, and watched as Edward reverently picked them up and then came and enfolded her in his arms in a kiss of farewell.

“Do not worry, wife, all will be well, and Bracel will cope admirably while I am gone, of that I am certain. I must leave you now so as to catch up with the pilgrim band. They will have stopped to rest last night and will not have had a chance to travel too much farther this morning. Once I am with them, I will stable my horse at the first place I find a responsible hostler and pick it up on my way back from Spain.”

At her downcast expression, he released her and, regarding her with shining eyes, clasped her hands tightly in his. “Just remember the rewards of my journey, Mary. Little Dickon completely recovered and breathing easily, with no more sleepless nights while we wait in fear for his death rattle. Any privation will be worth it.”

Relenting, Mary patted her husband’s arm. Aside from his capriciousness, Edward had been a good husband to her. He was faithful, attentive and an excellent provider. Whatever this iniquity that he spoke of, she was sure it had been magnified out of all proportion in his mind, but if going on pilgrimage gave his soul rest, it would be worth it, especially if it resulted in a cure for Dickon.

With good grace, she followed him downstairs, watched him mount his palfrey and, with an enthusiastic wave of his hand in her direction, trot out of the gate at the end of the yard. She could not have known that, before many hours had passed, she would bitterly regret not having paid more attention to her foreboding and making a more determined attempt to stop him leaving.

****************

Later that same morning, a party of four horsemen, comprised of an Italian emissary named Arrigo Teramo and his attendants, two of whom were armed and acted as guards, and the other a body servant, was approaching Lincoln from the south along

Ermine Street, the great thoroughfare that travelled north from London to York. It was a fine day, with a cloudless sky and the trees in the forest on either side of them were in full leaf. It was pleasant day for their journey, but within five miles of Lincoln they saw, a little way ahead of them, a saddled but riderless horse cropping grass on the verge of the road.

Cautiously Teramo reined in his horse and held up his hand to signal the men of his escort to come to a halt. After carefully scrutinizing the greenwood for signs of the horse’s rider, and seeing no one, he ordered one of the guards to go forward and secure the animal.

The guard went slowly, sword drawn, looking cautiously about him. The trees in the forest were not overly thick, but the foliage was dense and gave enough cover for outlaws to be lurking, using the ploy of a loose horse as a distraction to bring unwary travellers to a standstill in order to make it easier to attack them.

As the guard caught up the reins of the animal, Teramo and the other guard drew their own weapons, ready to act at the first sign of danger. The body servant, a slim man about forty years of age and small in stature, sat absolutely still, making a desperate attempt not to show his fear, clutching his hands together in front of him to calm their trembling.

There was no one in sight; the road before and behind was empty, and Teramo was just beginning to relax his watchful stance when the guard holding the loose horse gave a shout and pointed to the base of a dead oak tree. Its massive trunk was scorched and appeared to have been riven by lightening.

The emissary rode up to the spot the guard had indicated and there saw the body of a man sprawled on the ground, the shaft of an arrow protruding from deep in the side of his neck and another embedded in his side. Across the side of his face was a bloody furrow.

The guard knelt beside the body and felt for a heartbeat. “È morto,” he pronounced with a shake of his head and then removed the leather scrip from the dead man’s belt and handed it to his master. It was full of coins.

Teramo glanced at the riderless horse. From the saddle hung a hat with a wide brim alongside a staff with a crosspiece that ended, on one side, with a hook for carrying a sack containing food and other necessities. Both were accoutrements carried by pilgrims.

He surveyed the ground close to where the body lay and saw a trail of churned up earth and grass extending the short distance from the road to the tree. It seemed reasonably clear what had happened; the dead man must have been arrowshot as he was riding along the road, his horse had bolted into the forest and he had tumbled from the saddle at the place where they found him.

“This man has obviously been waylaid and killed,” Teramo said to his servants, “but who did it, or why, is of no concern to us. Nonetheless, to show that we are not guilty of any involvement, we will take his body, and his money and possessions, with us to Lincoln and report his death to the authorities.”

CHAPTER 2

By mid-afternoon, Teramo and his escort had crossed the bridge that spanned the Witham River and reached Stonebow, the huge gate that led into Lincoln from the south. There was not much foot traffic, and the few people they passed quickly moved aside to make way and then stood and stared in surprise at the body—the arrows still protruding from the wounds—slung over the back of a horse. It produced a similar reaction in the guards on the gate for, when they saw the corpse, both came running, their faces full of alarm.

“’Tis Edward Tisser,” one of them exclaimed when he saw the dead man’s visage. “He only left Lincoln this morning to join a party of pilgrims going to Spain. How does he come to be dead?” he asked Teramo.

“Of that I can tell you nothing,” the Italian replied in excellent English with only the slightest trace of an accent. “We found his body next to the road and, as it was still warm, it would appear he was killed just before we came upon him, but we saw no one else in the vicinity.”

The guards both nodded. By his demeanour and fine clothes, it was obvious this foreigner was of high rank but, even so, that did not remove him from the suspicion that he might have murdered a citizen of the town.

“We need to inform our captain of this death, and so must ask you to remain here until we have done so,” the guard said.

The emissary nodded an assent and, without any further ado, the guards removed the body from the horse and carried it carefully into the guard house inside one of the towers that flanked the gate, and laid it down on the floor of the small space inside. After viewing the wounds, they covered the corpse with an old blanket and then one of them went at a run up Mikelgate to find Roget, captain of the town guard.

Teramo and his servants nudged their horses to one side out of the way of the traffic passing through the gate but it was not long before a curious crowd had gathered.

Soon, however, a man whom Teramo correctly assumed to be the captain arrived. As he strode up to the gatehouse the Italian scrutinised him carefully, seeing an individual with broad shoulders and the demeanour of a hardened soldier. A heavy black beard threaded through with copper rings covered the lower half of his face above which, on one cheek, was the scar of an old sword slash. Behind him trailed a small wain driven by the guard who had fetched him.

With the merest of glances at Teramo, the captain spoke briefly to the guard who had remained at the gate and then went into the room in the tower where the body lay. After a few moments, he came out and addressed the emissary.

“I am Roget, captain of Sheriff Camville’s town guard,” he said, with a hint of a Gallic accent in his words, “and have been told that you are the one who found the body. How did you come to be where he was lying?”

Although the captain made no attempt at intimidation, Teramo could tell, by his confident stance, that Roget was not a man to be trifled with and quietly gave his name and added that he and his escort had come across the dead man as they were journeying to Lincoln where, he hoped, he would be able to gain an interview with Lady Nicolaa de la Haye who was, he had been told, wife of Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln.

“She is,” Roget confirmed bluntly. “The corpse must be taken to the castle for Sir Gerard to examine, and you will be needed for answering any questions he may have about your finding of the victim. You and your servants will accompany me there now.”

Teramo again made no demur to the peremptory command and he and his servants waited in silence while the corpse was loaded on the wain. Then, just as they were about to set off, a woman came racing down the street, skirts fluttering and the ends of her white linen coif streaming out behind her. Following a little distance behind was a young man, perhaps eighteen years of age, his face ashen.

The woman, seeing the body in the cart, made a dash towards it, tears streaming down her face, but Roget gently restrained her by blocking her passage with his arm before she was able to reach the corpse.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. “A neighbour came and told me that my husband is dead, but it cannot be so, captain. He only left a few hours ago to go on pilgrimage. God would not be so unkind as to allow him to be murdered on such a holy journey. There must be some mistake.”

“I fear your neighbour told you true, Mistress Tisser,” Roget told her quietly and the Italian was surprised to see an expression of compassion etched on the captain’s fearsome countenance. “Au nom de Dieu, I tell you that the body on the wain is that of your husband.”

“Then let me go to him, I beg of you,” the wife pleaded.

“Not just yet,” Roget replied. “It will be better to wait until you can see him in a more private place,” he added, with a meaningful glance at the curious crowd.

Resignedly accepting his advice, she asked tremulously how her husband had come to be dead.

“He was arrowshot on the road south of town,” Roget told her, “most likely by outlaws.”

As the newly-made widow broke into heart-rending sobs, Roget motioned for the young man who had been following her to come forward.

“Take her home, Master Adam,” he instructed. “I must take your brother’s body to the castle and inform the sheriff of his death. As soon as Sir Gerard gives his permission for the remains to be removed to the death house of your parish church, I will send you word.”

The young man nodded dumbly and led his sister-by-marriage away.

Once they were gone, Roget signalled to the guard to drive the wain up Mikelgate towards the fortress that sat, alongside the Minster, at the top of the steep knoll on which Lincoln town was built.

As he followed in their wake, Teramo took note of his surroundings. The buildings were all of sound structure; the people on the streets seemed content and the cobbled roadway in good repair. After mounting a sharp incline called

Steep Street at the northern end of Mikelgate, they passed through another massive gate and then he and the men of his escort trailed behind Roget and the wain into the castle ward. The Italian looked around him, impressed with the strength and orderliness of the fortress. There were two keeps, one much older than the other, a large barracks for housing the garrison, a goodly sized stable, a blacksmith’s forge and various other buildings that would provide workplaces for craftsmen such as a blacksmith, fletchers, coopers and the like. In front of a walled area at the end which would most likely enclose a herb garden, washer-women were at work cleansing household linen in deep tubs of water. It would seem that Gerard Camville and his wife were careful taskmasters.

Roget paused just inside the entrance and spoke to a grizzle-headed soldier he called Ernulf who, once he had listened to what the captain had to say, took charge of the wain and directed the guard to drive it towards a small building on the eastern side of the bail.

Roget then turned to the emissary. “If you and you servants will dismount, a groom will attend to your horses. The sheriff is out hunting at the moment, but we will go into the hall and you can wait while I report your presence to Lady Nicolaa.”

Teramo and his servants did as suggested and followed the captain up the steps of the forebuilding into the keep. As they entered the hall, a huge chamber with a dais at one end, a steward stepped forward.

“I need to speak to the mistress, Eudo,” Roget told him. “There’s a dead body been found on

Ermine Street and also there is this visitor who wishes to see her.”

“Lady Nicolaa is working in her private chamber at the moment. I will send up a page to inform her of your request.”

As Roget moved to follow the page across the hall, Eudo turned to Teramo and said, “Our midday meal is just over, but if you require it, there is ample food for your sustenance, and that of your servants.”

At the Italian’s nod, the steward directed him to a table set on one side of the hall where food and drink would be served to him, and said that his men could help themselves to ale from one of the kegs standing at the back of the hall, and the bread and meat on platters alongside.

******************

At that moment, Nicolaa de la Haye was dictating a letter to one of her clerks, a mute lad named Gianni. He had joined her household a few years before after being brought to Lincoln by a Templar knight, Bascot de Marins, who had found him in Sicily as the knight was travelling back to England after escaping imprisonment by Saracens in the Holy Land. When de Marins had come across him, Gianni had been begging on the wharves in Palermo, and suffering from severe malnutrition. The knight’s compassion had been deeply stirred by his plight and he had brought the lad, who had then been about twelve years of age, back to England with him. When de Marins had been sent to Lincoln by the Templar Order to recuperate from his ordeal, the boy was still in his company, and had remained in the castle when, some time later, Bascot resumed his duties with the Order. At that time, Gianni’s one great ambition had been to become a clerk and Nicolaa had taken him under her protection and arranged for his tutelage. To her gratification, he had applied himself assiduously and was now, almost six years later, a highly competent and valued clerk in her scriptorium.

Both his mistress and Gianni were sad at the moment. A few weeks before, Lady Nicolaa’s elderly secretarius, John Blund, has passed away from a lingering illness that had lasted many months. His presence was sorely missed, not only for his talents, but because he had been well liked by all who knew him. Blund had been especially fond of Gianni, and had left the boy a small legacy of thirty pounds against the day, he had written in his will, ‘that the lad might have need of it’. Another experienced and more mature clerk, Lambert, had taken over Blund’s responsibilities, but he had done so with a heavy heart, for Blund’s passing had left him, as well as Nicolaa and Gianni, with a grief that was still sharp and sore.

Nicolaa had just finished dictating the last missive when the page Eudo had sent knocked at the door, Roget close behind him. When she gave the command for the captain to enter, he went inside and told her briefly of how the body of Edward Tisser, a local draper, who had just left that morning to go on a pilgrimage to St. James of Compostela in Spain, had been found dead on Ermine Street a few miles south of Lincoln, and that a party of Italian travellers had discovered his body. The leader of the Italians, he added, was a man named Arrigo Teramo, who had been on his way to the castle to seek an audience with herself.

“Tisser was murdered, lady, killed by arrowshot,” Roget told her.

“Outlaws?” Nicolaa asked.

The captain shrugged uncertainly. “Perhaps. The arrows are not finely hewn and very like the ones wolf’s heads make for themselves. But if it was outlaws then the Italian and his escort must have appeared before there was time for them to plunder his body. Tisser’s scrip was full of money, and still on his belt.”

“What has been done with his corpse?”

“Ernulf has taken charge of it,” Roget replied, “and will see it is placed in the empty shed alongside the cooper’s shack until Sir Gerard returns.”

“And the relatives—they have been informed?”

Roget nodded.

Nicolaa took a moment to consider what she had been told. Not only was she the wife of the sheriff, but also the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, and the inheritor of a huge demesne left to her by her father. Diminutive and slightly plump, she was a woman of calm demeanour who oversaw all in her remit with a discerning eye. Although the murder of a townsman was properly within her husband’s bailiwick, she often deputised for him and would do so in this case until his return later that day.

She turned to Gianni. He and the Templar knight, Bascot de Marins, had often been involved, at her behest, in seeking out the perpetrators of secret murder and the lad was no stranger to the grisly duties that must be performed whenever the corpse of a victim was found.

“Go and examine the body, Gianni, and make note of anything you believe might be pertinent to his death. Since the traveller who found him wishes to have speech with me, I will grant his request and ask him if he has knowledge of any details he noticed at the place where Tisser was found that may also be relevant. If he does, you can add them to your record later.”

As Gianni made haste to comply with her order, Nicolaa told the page who had come with Roget to bring Teramo to the solar. “I will see him there in a few moments,” she added.

As the page ran off, she instructed Roget to attend her while she spoke to the Italian. “It is not likely he is involved in the draper’s death but, as a safeguard, I would have you with me while I am in his company.”

CHAPTER 3

When Nicolaa and Roget reached the solar, Teramo was waiting for her, the page who had brought him there still in attendance. The chamber was a large one in which the castellan usually received guests or simply retired to when she had some time for leisure; bright tapestries hung on the walls, settles, stools and small tables were scattered around the perimeter and a small fire burned in the grate at one end, for the day was not overly warm.

Taking her usual chair—a padded one with straight back and arms—near the fire, she bid the Italian come forward and Roget took up a position beside his mistress.

“I understand you have come to ask an audience of me,” she said to her visitor, “which I will grant, but first I would like to discuss how you came to find the dead body of one of our townsmen.”

Teramo nodded and Nicolaa took a moment or two to regard him. He was about thirty years of age, she judged, of moderate height and build, with the fair hair of many of those from the north of his country. His features were well-favoured and he wore his chin shaven, his eyes were hazel and set under well-marked brows. He was also a man of substance, judging by the quality of his clothes. They were not ostentatious but of fine fabric and the only jewellery he wore was a gold seal ring on the small finger of his right hand imprinted with a bar sinister and a stylised letter ‘M’.

“I am told you came across the body just a short distance south of Lincoln. How far from town was it?” she asked.

“About five miles, dama,” he said, “near an oak tree that appeared to have been split by lightening.” Although he used the Italian form of ‘lady’ in addressing her, his English was of almost perfect intonation.

“I know the spot,” Nicolaa confirmed. “And you saw no one else in the vicinity?”

“No,” he confirmed. “There was only a horse that appears to have belonged to the dead man and the woods along the road seemed empty.”

“Were there any signs on the body, or on the ground around him, that he had been engaged in a struggle of some sort?”

“Not a struggle, no. But there was a trail of disturbed earth and foliage leading into the trees from the road, from which I would gauge that he was arrowshot while travelling along it, whereupon his horse bolted towards the forest and he fell from the saddle near the tree. His body was still warm, so he must have been killed only a short time before we arrived.”

“A strange occurrence it would seem,” Nicolaa opined, “for I am told that you brought in his scrip, which still contained money, so it seems unlikely outlaws were responsible for his death else they would have taken it.”

“That would be my opinion also,” Teramo replied.

Sensing that there was no more that the Italian could, or would tell, Nicolaa nodded. “You have my thanks for bringing the corpse to town.”

“It was my Christian duty. I am pleased to have been of help.”

Satisfied that any further questions that needed to be put to the visitor could wait until her husband’s return, she said, “Then we may now discuss the reason for your wish to have speech with me.”

“I am here on behalf of Conti Berardo di Marsi, lord of Abruzzo in Italy” he said, “whom I have the honour to claim as my father, although I am only his bastardo. The mission is a matter of some delicacy,” he added, with a glance at Roget, “and I would ask if I may speak of it to you privately.”

Nicolaa raised her eyebrows but, after a moment’s thought, nodded and motioned for Roget to retire to the back of the solar where he would be out of earshot.

Once Roget had complied with the command, Teramo drew some papers from inside his tunic and handed them to her. “The count has been in correspondence with your king, and has obtained his permission for my journey. One of those documents is a letter from King John giving his sanction for my enquiry, the other is from the count to you, and is an authorisation of my credentials as his representative.”

Nicolaa scanned both pieces of parchment, gritting her teeth as she did so. How like John to spring this on her without any word of warning. She had once been his staunch supporter but after recently becoming involved against her own will in one of his subversive machinations, relations between them had become strained. He had known this unannounced visit by an emissary representing a member of the Italian nobility would take her by surprise and it was his way of reminding her that he was displeased with her. Quelling the outrage that rose in her breast against the king, she nonetheless spoke curtly.

“Although this letter from the count verifies your identity, it does not state the reason he has sent you. I have many matters demanding my attention and the time I can spare you is short. Will you please explain his intention without any further delay?”

There was a note of steel in her voice that made the Italian aware she was angry and he knew he would have to tread carefully if he was to gain her sanction for his embassy.

Making himself appear contrite, he apologized. “Mi dispiace, dama. I will try to be brief. My visit here concerns a five year old boy who went missing in Palermo in Sicily twelve years ago and was never found. His father, Rinaldo di Marsi, is the count’s cousin and recently information has surfaced indicating that the boy may have been brought to England and is now a servant in your household. If you will give your permission, I have been sent by the count to interview the boy and, if it proves he is indeed the child, whose name is Umberto, to take him back to the loving bosom of his family.”

Startlement coursed through Nicolaa. There could be no doubt he was speaking of Gianni as being the missing boy. Palermo was the Sicilian port where the Templar knight, Bascot de Marins, had found Gianni begging on the wharves. The lad did not have any memory of his early years, or of any parent, not even a mother, nor did he recall if he had ever been christened with a name or how old he was, and they had assumed he had been born to a poor woman, or a prostitute, who had been forced to abandon him when he was very young. After he had learned to convey his speech by gestures, he had communicated to Bascot that all that he could recall of his early life was being among the other urchins on the wharves.  A child’s memory of such early years is always sketchy, and the trauma of such a tragedy as being caught in a burning building might make it even more so. They had calculated Gianni’s age by the maturity of his body and estimated him to be about twelve years old at the time de Marins had rescued him, which would fit with the age that this missing son of this Italian noble would be now. If he was, in truth, of high birth, she would be pleased for him, but was not about to accept the possibility out of hand until she had proof, especially since the king seemed to be involved in the affair, if only peripherally. Gianni’s safekeeping had been in her trust since de Marins had left him in the castle when he rejoined the Templar Order and even though he was now nearly grown to manhood, she still took the responsibility seriously.

She decided to make her response cautious. “An intriguing situation, and one of which I would like to hear more details.”

“Which I am most willing to give you, dama,” Teramo replied, and Nicolaa did not fail to notice the triumphant gleam in his eye for having succeeded in gaining her undivided attention. She decided to ignore it, however, and gave him a nod to continue.

“At the time of Umberto’s disappearance, his father Rinaldo, a widower, had recently remarried. His young bride was a Sicilian and had, as part of her marriage portion, brought Rinaldo some land in the interior of the island. Wishing to inspect the property and ensure it was being properly maintained, Rinaldo decided to take a trip to Sicily from his home in Italy for that purpose, taking his new wife and Umberto with him. The ship they travelled on docked at Palermo and it was Rinaldo’s intent, before continuing the journey inland, to spend a few days visiting a very good friend of his, whose residence was located in the town.

“All went well for a day or two and then, unfortunately, a fire started in one of the rooms in the friend’s house, necessitating that everyone leave while it was extinguished. Once the building was made safe, Umberto was nowhere to be found. A search was made, of course, of the town and surrounding area, and throughout Sicily for a long time afterwards, but to no avail, and Rinaldo was heartbroken. He has never given up hope, however, that his son is still alive, so when he was told the information about your servant, he immediately contacted the count and asked for an emissary to be sent to England in order to determine the truth of the matter.”

“And the information that led the boy’s father to believe his son is in England—what was it?” Nicolaa asked.

“It came to Rinaldo purely by chance, dama, through the wife of another member of the di Marsi family. She has a daughter that was born deaf and was told of a book containing gestures that might be helpful for the girl to use to communicate with others and made a great effort to obtain a copy of it, which she eventually did. When she received the book she found that it was dedicated to yourself, and that it had been compiled by one of your clerks with the assistance of a servant in your retinue.”

Nicolaa remembered the book. Lambert had been the compiler, under the direction of John Blund, who had, by means of drawings with written text underneath, recorded all of the gestures that the Templar and Gianni had devised to speak to each other before the boy had learned to read and write. The purpose of the book had been to aid the son of a relative of the wife of Nicolaa’s son, who had a harelip and could not speak clearly enough to communicate with other people. It had proved to be a useful guide, not only for those who suffered from muteness, as Gianni did, or deformities that inhibited speech, but also for those who were born deaf, a much more common disability. Once the existence of the book became known, a few copies had been requested by pedants and other nobles in the kingdom, to use for instruction in teaching either pupils or family members with similar problems. It was quite possible that a copy had made its way to Italy.

“The girl’s mother found the book of great use in helping her have a conversation with her deaf daughter,” Teramo was continuing, “and she happened to mention it in the company of a cleric from England who was visiting Italy in connection with his duties to the church. While he did not have any personal knowledge of the book, he had sometimes been in Lincoln and told of how he had heard that there was a clerk in your scriptorium that was not only a mute, but had also been brought to England from Sicily some years before by a Templar knight, and would assume that this was the lad that had inspired the work.

“The relative immediately went to Rinaldo and told him what she had heard from the priest,” Teramo continued, “wondering at the co-incidence that the boy had come from Palermo and if, by some chance, it was possible that your clerk might, in fact, be Umberto. Rinaldo, in turn, went to the count, and asked for his aid, which resulted in my being sent on this embassy.”

He paused for a moment, and then gave Nicolaa a direct look. “I trust these details about the Templar knight finding the boy and bringing him here are correct, dama?”

“So far,” Nicolaa hedged.

“My father felt this information gave his cousin good cause to believe that your servant and his missing son are one and the same.”

“I fear that hope has been precipitate,” Nicolaa said with a touch of asperity. “While I admit it is possible that what they propose could be true, it is very unlikely. You said Rinaldo’s son has been missing for twelve years, but it was only six years ago that the Templar brought the boy who eventually became my servant back to England. Surely a young child raised in the tender nurture of a noble family would not have been able to survive alone for the intervening six years.”

“Even so it is still possible that he might have done, Teramo insisted. “Children can be resourceful at even a very young age. And there is one more connection between the two boys that I have not mentioned.”

“And that is?” Nicolaa asked.

“Umberto, like Gianni, is also a mute.”

CHAPTER 4

At that moment, Gianni was examining Edward Tisser’s corpse. On his way out of the keep, his mind focused on the task in front of him, he had not noticed the emissary and his escort as he passed through the hall. But Teramo had seen him, noticed the un-English darkness of his curly hair, eyes and skin along with the scrivener’s implements that the lad carried attached to his belt. The Italian had watched his figure attentively as he had threaded his way through the other servants to the door.

Once outside, Gianni had gone down the steps of the forebuilding and crossed the bail, and then entered the small shack where the body had been placed. The building was not capacious, used only as a storage space for the staves that the castle cooper used in his trade. The interior smelled sweetly of wood, and helped to alleviate the odour that was already beginning to emanate from the corpse laid out on a broad plank set on trestles near the door. The draper’s body had been covered by a cloak—presumably his own, for the material was of good quality—which, after bowing his head in a prayer for the murdered man’s soul, Gianni pulled aside and carefully folded. Tisser appeared to have been a healthy man before his unfortunate demise. Of medium height and sturdily built, he had light brown hair, cut fairly short, and a wide brow. His face, which bore a deep graze across one cheek, now had a waxen pallor and, from the rigidity in the jaw, it appeared the death stiffening was setting in.

Taking a deep breath, Gianni paused for a moment. On all of the previous investigations of secret murder in which he had assisted, the Templar had stressed the importance of carefully examining the victim’s corpse. Much might be learned, he had said, from any wounds that had been inflicted and also the condition of the body.

Gianni bent forward and, with delicate probing fingers, searched the site of the two wounds from which arrows still protruded. The one in the side had penetrated only the muscle in the top of the hip and would not have been fatal had that been the only injury sustained. The shaft in the neck, however, had completely severed the great artery and would have brought death within moments.

He took ample time to examine the arrows as best he could without extracting them. They would have to be left where they were until the sheriff gave leave to remove them. They were roughly carved, although evenly weighted, and the flights were common goose feathers. Neither arrow bore the mark of a fletcher and he would guess they had not been made by a craftsman.

The shoulder of Tisser’s tunic underneath the arrow that had penetrated his neck was heavily stained with blood, but there was only a small quantity on his hose around the one in his hip which, from what he had learned from the Templar, would indicate that the arrows must have been fired in rapid succession. With the infliction of the fatal neck injury the heart would soon have stopped beating and thereby inhibited the flow of blood from the lesser wound. It was most likely that the graze across the victim’s cheek had been from another arrow which had been badly aimed and abraded the flesh in passing.

Since the victim’s tunic was too stained to be salvaged, Gianni now took up the small eating knife he carried on his belt and slit the sleeves from wrists to armpits and then down to the waist so the garment could be pulled up to the shoulders and enable him to examine the rest of the body. Here again, the garment was made of good material—as would befit a man who dealt in fine cloth—having been fashioned from a length of close-woven dark green wool.  Carefully he scrutinised the draper’s chest and back, and then the arms, looking for any other injuries that might have been hidden. But other than a slight mottling on his back—which Gianni knew would be caused by the blood settling there as he lay on the ground after his death—there were no signs of any bruises or lacerations that might have stemmed from an attempt by Tisser to defend himself before he died. It would therefore be reasonable to assume, he decided, that the attack had been sudden, such as would be consistent with the arrows being fired from the greenwood lining the road along which he had been travelling.

When the hose were removed, Gianni could not find any marks of an untoward nature on the lower part of the body, only the same mottling on the back of his legs as had been on his torso, in addition to a large abrasion on his left buttock, which must have been the point on his body on which he had landed when he fell off his horse.

After removing the wax tablet he carried on his belt and making notes with his stylus of his observations thus far, he replaced the dead man’s clothing as well as he could so that he was decently covered, and then turned to Tisser’s possessions, which had been piled on the floor beside the makeshift bier. Again, there was nothing in the draper’s belongings that gave any clue to the reason for his assault, only a sturdy leather bag containing spare clothing and a change of shoes, a pilgrim’s hat and staff and a silver medal of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, along with a sack in which was a flask of wine and some food.

In the scrip there was a goodly quantity of silver coins, and on the cloak was a silver gilt clasp in the shape of a leaf. These items, as well as the victim’s garments and boots, would have been well worth an attack on Tisser if the motive had been theft, but none had been taken. If the perpetrators had been outlaws, they could have been disturbed by the arrival of the travellers that had discovered the dead man before they had time to rob him. But if not, then could the draper have been killed by someone else, someone with another motive for wanting his death?

He tried to assess the approximate time of day that Tisser must have been arrowshot. If he had left early that morning, and pressed his horse to a gallop after he left Lincoln, it would have taken him roughly an hour to reach the point where he had been arrowshot. Once he was found, it would be reasonable to assume that it would have taken approximately another two hours for the travellers, at a necessarily much slower pace, to bring his corpse to the keep. Adding in another hour for his body to be placed in the storeroom and Gianni sent to examine him would come to a total of four hours. Since it was past midday, it was possible he had lain for at least half of an hour, perhaps more, before he was discovered—plenty of time for him to have been robbed by his assailants if that had been their intent.

Thoughtfully Gianni wrote down his observations on his wax tablet and replaced the tablet on his belt. The murder of the draper had ramifications that were puzzling and might need investigating, but it would be for Sir Gerard to decide whether or not that was to be done. Leaving the body and the belongings as tidy as he had found them, Gianni went to make his report to Lady Nicolaa.

CHAPTER 5

As Gianni was crossing the ward to return to the keep, Nicolaa was still in the solar, but now alone. After a few minutes further conversation with Teramo, she had acceded to his request to interview Gianni with the proviso that he would wait until she had herself informed the lad about the possibility he was the missing son of a relative of Count di Marsi. Until she had done that, she told the emissary, she would prefer that he, and all of his servants, stay within the confines of the old keep in the bail, where rooms would be prepared for them and food provided.

Teramo had protested, but only a little, offering his solemn promise not to broach the subject to Gianni until she gave permission, but she had refused. “A careless word from one of your servants to one of my own will precipitate matters,” she had declared, “and I do not want him to be informed of your claim by rumour.”

“But, dama,” the Italian had objected, “my servants barely speak English and are incapable of passing on information.”

“Nonetheless, that is my condition,” Nicolaa replied. “If you do not wish to conform to it, you are free to seek lodgings in the town until I am ready to allow you access to my clerk.”

Recognising he was defeated, Teramo gave in with good grace and she called Roget forward and gave him orders to escort the Italian and his servants to the old keep and tell Eudo to ensure they were comfortably fed and housed there.

Now, alone, she pondered on what she had been told. When she had asked about the parents of the missing Umberto, the emissary told her that his mother had died giving him birth and that it had been three years after this sad event that his father, Rinaldo di Marsi, had married the high-born Sicilian woman.

Rinaldo was of mature years, Teramo went on, and a wealthy man. Since there had been no other children from his first marriage, and none that had survived from his second, Umberto was his only heir.

When Nicolaa asked who would be Rinaldo’s inheritor should his missing son never be found, Teramo’s answer had made her uneasy.

“No one has been designated as yet,” had been the reply, ‘for Rinaldo is firm in his belief that Umberto is still alive.”

“A dangerous situation,” Nicolaa had opined. “You said Rinaldo is elderly; what will become of his estates if he should die while his son is still lost?”

Teramo shrugged. “I do not know, dama, and it would not be fitting for a person of my lowly rank to speculate on his intentions.”

Nicolaa saw something flicker uncomfortably in Teramo’s eyes as he said this and thought privately that he knew more than he was telling about the disposal of Rinaldo’s wealth and determined that she would, on Gianni’s behalf, make a strenuous effort to learn more about the di Marsi family and the identity of another possible heir. Such a person might easily bear enmity towards Gianni for replacing him as the recipient of a fortune and the repercussions could be dangerous. It was not unknown for a favoured relative to be struck down by an unfortunate accident, or even poison, to remove them as an obstacle to preferment.  She knew little of the members of Italian nobility, but she did not intend to allow that to deter her, and would seek out any who might be able to give her help in that regard.

“You speak English very well,” Nicolaa had then said, changing the course of the conversation. “Have you, perhaps, spent time in our country prior to this visit?”

Teramo relaxed and gave a small laugh. “No, dama, although I am but a baseborn son of the count—my mother was a girl from the village of Teramo, hence my name—he was gracious enough to provide an English tutor for me from early childhood. My teacher was a pedant of exactitude and when he discovered I had an aptitude for foreign languages he taught me his own, along with French and German, and was very thorough in correcting my pronunciation of all three.”

“It would appear that you paid close attention to his teachings, for you speak our language fluently,” Nicolaa commented, rising to signify the end of the interview.

Teramo too, got up from his seat, thanking her for the compliment. As he turned to go, she asked him one more question. “What is the name of the English cleric who told the count’s relative of my clerk?”

Her query took the Italian by surprise and, for a moment, he faltered. “I cannot recall that I ever heard it, dama,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned that he had been in Lincoln and, if so, it is most likely that the bishop will be acquainted with him. It would have been a satisfying gesture to have passed along a commendation for the possibility that he has helped reunite a lost boy with his father.”

She make the remark blandly, more to gauge Teramo’s reaction than to act upon her suggestion and was rewarded by the momentary flash of disquiet that crossed the Italian’s face.

*************

When Gianni arrived with his report a short time later, she listened as, with the aid of writing a few key words on his wax tablet and the gestures he used to communicate, he told her the results of his examination of the draper’s body.

“So, in your opinion, there is a possibility Tisser was not murdered by brigands?” she asked when he had finished.

Gianni nodded.

“You have done well,” she told him. “I will give all of this information to my husband when he returns so he can make a decision as to whether or not the death merits further investigation.”

When the lad rose and would have left her presence to return to the scriptorium, she motioned for him to remain. “I have something to tell you, Gianni, and it is very important.”

First of all his mistress related how the travellers that had found the draper’s body had come from Italy on an embassy that concerned him and then, after taking a deep breath, she told him Teramo’s name, his relationship to Count di Marsi, and that his purpose in coming to Lincoln was because there was a possibility that Gianni was the son of an Italian noble who had disappeared during a fire twelve years before in Palermo.

The expression on the lad’s face told of his astonishment at the revelation but her next statement that the missing boy had been a mute completely astounded him.

“You will understand, Gianni,” she went on to the shocked lad, “that there are similarities between yourself and this boy, Umberto di Marsi, that cannot be ignored—not only would you have been about the same age as he when he disappeared in Palermo, the place where the Templar found you, but you also both have the unfortunate affliction of muteness.”

She paused for a moment, to give him time to absorb her words, and then said, “I know you told Sir Bascot that you do not remember living anywhere except on the wharves in Palermo during your younger years, but now the possibility that you are Umberto is made evident, details of his life may be familiar to you and bring back a memory of a time when you were he. His family is wealthy and occupy a privileged position and he would have worn fine clothes and been waited on by servants before his disappearance. Do you recall ever being in such circumstances?”

Gianni, bemused, nonetheless tried to do as the castellan asked, but finally shook his head in negation.

Determined to give Gianni every opportunity of finding out the truth, she posed another question. “There is another event for you to consider,” she said, “and that is the fire in the house where Umberto was staying with his family on the night he disappeared. Sometimes such a frightening situation presses itself strongly on the mind. Can you remember experiencing such a happening?

Again Gianni, after reflecting for a few moments, shook his head and then wrote some words on his tablet.

“I do not think I can be this boy, for none of these things are familiar to me, nor do I ever remember being called Umberto,” he wrote.

“That last point is a good one, Gianni, for names are very personal and not easily forgotten,” Nicolaa said to him, “and would seem to give the lie to the claim. But if you are, in fact, this boy, you may have sustained some sort of injury to your head while escaping the fire and there are many cases where people have been known to completely lose their memory after such an incident, including the name by which they are called.”

She paused briefly, feeling a pang of sympathy for the bewildered young lad standing in front of her. Being confronted with such a life-changing possibility must necessarily be very disconcerting.

“There is much at stake for you in this matter, Gianni,” she added quietly. “The family is noble and wealthy and, if you are Umberto, you will be heir to a rich estate, so it is best for you give a great deal of thought as to whether or not you can be this boy before you dismiss the notion. The emissary has asked for an interview with you. If you agree to one, it may be he will give you information about Umberto’s father and his home in Italy that will enable you to recollect something that is familiar. Are you willing to speak to him?”

His mind in turmoil, but realising his mistress’ suggestion was a sensible one, Gianni nodded his acquiescence.

CHAPTER 6

When Mary, in Adam’s company, returned home after hearing the terrible news of Edward’s murder, she announced, tears still running down her face, her intention of going up to her children to tell them of their father’s death.

“Thanks be to God that little Dickon is too young to understand,” she sobbed, “but Beatrice and Anne are not, and will be as heartbroken as I.”

Leaning on the arm of one of the maidservants, she ascended the stairs that led up to the second floor where her children were in the care of a nursemaid. A few moments later, sounds of weeping and wailing could be heard and Adam stumbled into the small hall on the ground floor and poured himself a large measure of wine before sinking onto a padded settle.

As he sat there, Bracel, Edward’s clerk, entered. He was a man of middle years, short-statured, and possessed of steady intelligent, grey eyes, and had been in the employ of the family since he himself had been no older than the young man seated before him.

“You have heard that Edward has been killed?” Adam asked him.

Bracel nodded. “One of the servants followed you and Mistress Mary to Stonebow and ran back to tell me.”

“Mary’s grief is very great,” Adam said in a choked voice. “She is inconsolable.”

The clerk laid a hand on the younger man’s arm. “It is only to be expected when such a tragedy descends so suddenly. The mistress will need time to withstand the shock, but she is a strong young woman and will cope eventually.”

Adam looked up hopefully. “Do you think so?”

“I am certain,” the clerk replied. “And, in the interim, you must do all you can to support her and the children through their time of misery.”

“I shall,” Adam declared with resolution, “and gladly.”

*************

Gerard Camville, along with the coterie of household knights that had accompanied him on his hunting trip, arrived back late that afternoon. When he entered the hall, Eudo told him that Lady Nicolaa wished to speak with him urgently.

The sheriff was a massive man, dark-visaged and of a sometimes irascible temper. His heavy black brows drew down into a frown at the request from his wife, but he knew she would not bother him unless it was important so, telling Eudo to bring a flagon of wine from his private store up to the solar where she was waiting, strode across the hall and went up the stairs in one of the corner turrets.

When he entered the chamber, Nicolaa was alone except for a page standing in attendance at the back of the room. She gave her husband greeting as he seated himself on a chair beside her, and asked if his hunt had been successful.

“Two roe deer and a small boar,” he grunted. “Not as much as I had hoped, but enough to put meat on the table for a day or two.”

He gave her a searching look and asked why there had been need to summon him as soon as he returned. The pair rubbed along amicably together as husband and wife. Their temperaments were diametrically opposed—Nicolaa calm and quietly decisive, the sheriff impatient and volatile. Theirs had been an arranged marriage and the union had brought Gerard the vast demesne that Nicolaa had inherited from her father, but he was content to allow her the management of the estate, and devote his own energies to the demands of the shrievalty and pleasures of the hunt. Normally, except for mealtimes and when in the company of visitors, they spent little time together, both content that it should be so, and he knew that she would not have requested his presence except for a pressing reason.

“There are two matters I need to discuss with you, Gerard. The first is that there has been a murder south of town on

Ermine Street. The victim is a Lincoln draper named Edward Tisser.”

Her husband listened without interrupting as she told him the circumstances of the murder and the conclusions Gianni had drawn from his examination of the corpse.

“As the victim was not robbed, the lad could be right in that it was not outlaws who killed him,” he said when she had finished. “Attacking him would serve no purpose for them otherwise.”

“That is my opinion also,” Nicolaa agreed. “It may be that whoever fired the arrows knew Tisser—a rival draper perhaps, or someone he had offended in some way—and bore him enough malice to wish him dead.”

Her husband nodded. “It could be so, and should be investigated. I shall instruct Roget to question the draper’s family with regard to it.”

“That might be unwise, husband,” Nicolaa said thoughtfully. “If the villain is not an outlaw and becomes aware, through an open investigation, that you are looking further afield for the perpetrator than miscreants in the greenwood, it will put him on his guard and make his identity more difficult to discover. It might be best to keep any enquiry confidential for now.”

“You could be right,” Gerard conceded, “but it will be difficult to be surreptitious and, at the same time, uncover the information we need.”

“Not if it is sought in an oblique manner,” Nicolaa replied and then went on to make a suggestion. “The castle sempstresses are often in town to buy material to be made into napery and household garments and one of them, Clare, has assisted me before during murder investigations. Gossip will be rife now about Tisser’s death so, if you are willing, I can send her to one or two of the other cloth merchants under pretext of viewing materials for purchase and she can listen to what is being said about him. She can also call at Tisser’s shop under guise of offering her condolences and see what she can learn there about his relationship with the rest of his family and acquaintances. If she discovers any hint that the draper may have been murdered for personal reasons, then more overt measures can be undertaken.”

Her husband considered her proposal and found it had merit so, after giving his assent for her to proceed, asked the nature of the second matter about which she wished to consult him.

“That is a much more delicate problem and concerns the traveller who found the body.”

After listening to his wife’s recounting of her meeting with Teramo and the nature of their conversation, the sheriff rose from his seat and began to pace uneasily. Her comment that the emissary had displayed an evasive manner when asked about another possible heir to Rinaldo di Marsi’s fortune made him suspicious about the validity of the claim, as did her opinion that Teramo was lying when he had professed ignorance of the name of the priest who had made mention of Gianni living in Lincoln. His apprehension was increased by the fact that King John was, to a small degree, involved in the matter.

He knew how fond his wife was of the young mute clerk, and he himself had a high regard for the Templar knight, Bascot de Marins, who had brought the boy to Lincoln. For those reasons, he did not intend to allow this claim to be taken lightly, nor to be forced into ready acceptance of it because of the king’s interference.

After several strides about the room, he turned to Nicolaa and said, “I agree with you that, to ensure the lad’s safety, this Italian’s assertion must be fully explored before giving it credence, as should the reason for John’s sanction to the proposal. He would agree to any connivance, no matter whether worthwhile or not if, by doing so, it brought him benefit, although I must admit I cannot see a way in which he would profit in this case.”

Camville had been at odds with the king for many years, since the time when they had united to defy John’s brother, Richard, and John had subsequently betrayed the sheriff for his own advantage. It was not surprising, therefore, that Nicolaa’s husband should be wary of the king’s intention in granting a request from a powerful Italian nobleman without previously informing either himself or his wife of the fact he had done so.

“Nor can I, husband,” Nicolaa admitted, “but nonetheless, it is best to be on our guard. In keeping with that intention, I have installed Teramo and his servants in the old keep and there they will remain until I am ready for him to interview Gianni. Before that time comes, de Marins should be told what has happened and his opinion sought as to how we might be able to prove the truth of this claim.”

Gerard grunted his approval. “Do so, and keep me informed of your progress.”

CHAPTER 7

The Lincoln Templar preceptory where Bascot de Marins was stationed was just outside the north-east wall of the town. It was of moderate size and typical of the many commanderies scattered throughout Christendom that served as staging posts for brothers travelling to the Holy Land and other overseas destinations, and also to oversee the lands that had been donated to the Order in the area where each preceptory was located.

When Nicolaa’s message arrived, it was almost time for the service of Vespers and Bascot de Marins was in the stables, discussing the items of tack needing to be replenished with the temporary preceptor, a Scottish brother named Feradac MacHeth. The latter had been acting as deputy for some months after the previous commander, Everard d’Arderon, had taken his corrodiary and retired to an enclave in the south of England. MacHeth, who had been appointed interim deputy while he recovered from a serious bout of dysentery contracted during active duty in Portugal, and was chafing to be transferred back there, had become firm friends with Bascot during his time in the Lincoln commandery.

De Marins, a knight of moderate height and build, with a dark beard and hair sprinkled with grey, wore a leather patch over his right eye, which had been put out during torture after he had been taken prisoner by the Saracens in the Holy Land thirteen years before. He had just reached his fortieth year and although, like MacHeth, he longed to be back in the forefront of Christendom’s conflict with the infidel, he was content to serve God and the Order as second in command of the Lincoln preceptory, holding the position of Draper. This was an important office which ensured that all travelling brothers entering the commandery’s purlieu had suitable arms, clothing and tack for their mounts, supplying replacements where necessary. He also assisted in the administration of the many properties the Order held in and around Lincoln and in forwarding the profits from each one to London, from where they were used to support brothers in battle with the infidel overseas.

Nicolaa’s letter was brought to him by one of the guards on the gate, who informed him that the page who had brought it had been instructed to wait for a reply.

Bascot scanned the message and astonishment coursed through him as he read of the claim brought by the Italian emissary and the similarities of age, disability and location between the missing di Marsi boy and Gianni. The castellan had added that since Gianni was in some distress over the matter, she would appreciate de Marin’s assistance in helping him decide if the assertion was valid.

Bascot’s first thought was for the impact of this news on the lad for whom he had such a deep affection. If Gianni was truly Umberto di Marsi, a glorious future awaited him as the son and heir of a prominent noble and Bascot would rejoice for him.  But, at the same time, such an event also brought sadness to the Templar’s heart for, if Gianni went to Italy to resume his place in his father’s household, it was unlikely they would ever see each other again, a circumstance he would find extremely difficult to cope with.

Although Bascot saw the boy seldom, it was a comfort to know he was in close proximity and would be safe from harm, or want, under Nicolaa de la Haye’s protection if Bascot were to be sent overseas. This last could not be assured if Gianni was living in a land so far from England.

MacHeth, deducing from the startlement on Bascot’s countenance that the message was of import, asked if the note contained bad news.

In reply, Bascot handed the piece of parchment to MacHeth and the Scottish brother scanned it.

“A weighty matter,” he said, knowing how much the lad meant to Bascot. “You must, of course, go at once to the castle to discuss this situation with the lad and Lady Nicolaa, and have my full permission to take whatever time you need to assist in any decisions that need to be made.”

Bascot thanked the preceptor and then turned to the guard that had brought the note. “Tell the page to inform Lady Nicolaa that I will come to the castle immediately the service at Vespers is ended.”

*************

After Bascot left the preceptory and was riding across the grounds of the Minster on his way to the castle, his thoughts were racing as he tried to remember every scrap of information he had learned from Gianni about the lad’s life before they had met. Gianni had always denied memory of anything other than the wharf in Palermo where Bascot had found him, shaking his head vociferously when asked if he recalled anything at all of a parent or any other relatives. His past had seemed a void and Bascot had always believed that he had been born to one of the harlots that plied their trade on the dock and she had perhaps died before he had been old enough to have any certain memory of her, or else she had abandoned him. There were such urchins in every township all over the world. A prostitute’s life was not an easy one; death struck them more often through violence or disease than it did those who were protected by family, and even if they survived, pregnancies were common and it was an arduous task for a woman in such a trade to raise an unwanted child.

He then mused on the similarity of muteness between the two boys as he passed by the Priory of All Saints set in the ward of the cathedral. Could this condition in both boys be just a matter of co-incidence? Bascot was doubtful, for he did not put much faith in such happenings; usually it was found there was some relationship between two seemingly disparate events or circumstances which, though often obscure, explained their connection. If that was so, then it would seem that Gianni might, in fact, be the missing Umberto.

His pondering occupied him until he reached the castle gate and, riding through it, gave his horse to a groom. As he walked over to the forebuilding of the keep and mounted the steps, he sent up a silent prayer for aid in helping Gianni face the dilemma confronting him.

CHAPTER 8

Once Nicolaa had sent her message to the preceptory, and her husband had retired to the hall below to take a cup of wine before the evening meal should be served, she turned her mind to the matter of Edward Tisser’s murder and sent for Clare.

The castellan valued the abilities of the sempstress highly; she was efficient, quiet and intelligent and often acted as Nicolaa’s tirewoman. She had been of assistance in two previous murder investigations and had proved herself to be an astute observer of details.

When Clare stood before her, and the page dismissed, Nicolaa recounted the details that were known of how the draper had met his end and also that she and the sheriff were not confident, despite it being a seemingly obvious conclusion, that his death had been perpetrated by outlaws.

“None of his belongings were stolen, and his purse, full of silver, was intact,” she said, “even though it appears that, if the hour he left Lincoln and his body was discovered are taken into consideration, there would have been ample time for him to be robbed. This leads us to believe that he might not have been murdered by brigands, but by someone who had a personal reason for killing him.”

Clare was shocked at the notion and said so. “But, lady, Edward Tisser was well respected in the town. Who could have wanted to commit such a terrible deed?”

“That is what I want you to help me find out, Clare,” Nicolaa replied. “It may be that he was, in fact, killed by outlaws and for some unknown reason they did not steal his belongings but, for the benefit of his family and in the interests of justice, I must make as sure as I can this was so.”

The sempstress nodded and Nicolaa continued. “I want you to try and find out, from the other drapers in the town, if Tisser had any enemies and, if so, who they were. Also it might be worthwhile to learn why he was going on pilgrimage at this time of year. The cloth fair will soon be held and, by going to Spain, he would have been absent at one of the busiest times of the year for his business.

“Tomorrow morning I want you to visit any of those in the cloth trade you deem most likely to have been intimate with Tisser and see what gossip you can pick up. Also, make a call of condolence to the Tisser household and try to learn if anyone there has any suspicion that Edward’s death was not due to brigandage. I am told he leaves a wife and three children, along with a younger brother. Do you know if there is any other family?”

“I do not believe so, lady, but I can ask.”

Nicolaa nodded and looked at her straightly before she went on. “I do not need to tell you that your enquiries must be made with the utmost discretion, for I do not want anyone alerted to our investigation. If the murderer is among the townspeople, or within his family, it is best they remain ignorant that we are looking into the death and so, feeling safe from discovery, might make an inadvertent slip that will  reveal their guilt.”

Clare appeared a little shaken by the enormity of the task laid upon her for her fair complexion went a shade paler but, as Nicolaa had expected, she took a deep breath and assured her mistress that she would do her best to discover anything pertinent before adding, “There is someone here in the castle that might also be able to help with the enquiry, lady.”

“And who is that?” Nicolaa asked.

“A young apprentice named Ellyn that the wardrobe mistress hired last year to work in the sewing room. Her father is a weaver in the town. Today, when the whole castle was abuzz with news of the murder, she mentioned that her father often did work for Edward. She might be aware, through her father, of any rumours circulating about him.”

Nicolaa nodded, remembering the girl to whom Clare referred. She was young, only about fourteen years of age, and a bright little thing. And, as Clare said, might be a useful source of information. “Yes, you have my permission to question her, but again, be circumspect.”

*************

Bascot arrived just after the evening meal was over and was directed by Eudo up to the private chamber the castellan used as her own. “Lady Nicolaa is waiting there for you,” the steward said, “and has instructed me to send young Gianni to join her there as soon as you are come.”

The Templar nodded and made his way up the stairs in one of the corner turrets to the small chamber in which Nicolaa attended to the many tasks connected with overseeing her large demesne.

“You are well come, de Marins,” she said when he entered and gestured for him to take a seat on the other side of a large desk piled with stacks of parchment, “but I would wish it were for a less confounding reason.”

“And I, lady,” the Templar assured her and then listened as she gave him further details of the claim and also the man who had delivered it.

“I have no firm reason to distrust Teramo or question his sincerity,” she said, “but I do, nonetheless. His manner is far too smooth for my liking.”

She paused for a moment and then said, “My husband and I have never heard of Count Berardo di Marsi but I thought that you, who have travelled widely throughout Christendom, may be familiar with his name.”

“I have heard the cognomen of di Marsi mentioned, but only in connection with a cardinal who may be a member of the same family.” Bascot said. “As you know, I was in the Templar contingent that accompanied King Richard when he embarked on crusade in ’90 and so was with his army when he stopped en route to the Holy Land to lay siege to Messina in Sicily. But the Order was only peripherally involved in the conflict and we stayed mainly on the west coast of Italy, just on the other side of the stretch of water that separates Sicily from the mainland. And it was while there that I heard of Cardinal di Marsi, and that he was an adviser to Pope Innocent, who was, naturally, very interested in the outcome of the fray and sent the cardinal to observe its progress and report back to him.”

Nicolaa tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the top of her desk. “If the di Marsi family include a cardinal among their ranks, then it would be fair to assume they are powerful.”

“I would think so, lady,” Bascot agreed. “But, in Gianni’s interest, and because of your unease, I believe it would be wise to try and find out more about them.”

“Most assuredly,” Nicolaa replied whole-heartedly. “And to that end, I intend to ask Bishop William to aid me. Now that I am apprised there is a cardinal amongst them, I am certain he can obtain information much more speedily than I.”

Bascot nodded. “And, I, in turn, can enlist the aid of the Order by contacting Master Berard in London. He will be aware of the political situation in Italy and therefore of the clerics that surround the pope. I shall write him a letter as soon as I return to the preceptory and send it by despatch tomorrow morning.”

“Unfortunately, all of this will take time, de Marins,” Nicolaa said, “and we will have to suffer the presence of this emissary, Teramo, here in the castle while we wait for the answers to our queries. I would wish we could deal with the matter more speedily for, until it is resolved, it will overshadow Gianni’s peace of mind.”

Bascot gave a nod of assent and then said, “You mentioned in your message that the Italian has asked for an interview with him. Has Gianni agreed to the request?”

“He has,” Nicolaa replied, “and I would appreciate it if you would attend when the meeting takes place. Will you be able to do so?”

“Preceptor MacHeth had promised me his full support in this matter,” Bascot replied, “and I have no doubt will give me his permission to be there. When is it to be held?”

“Tomorrow, in the late mid-morning,” Nicolaa replied.

As she spoke there was a light knock and the door and Gianni entered. His expression was apprehensive when he came in, but he visibly relaxed as soon he saw Bascot. The bond between the two was strong, and Gianni bore a love for the Templar that was akin to that of a father, and a man much closer to his heart than any far-off stranger could ever be, even if that stranger was his true sire.

Nicolaa, after bidding Gianni be seated on a stool, explained the enquiries that she and the Templar intended to make, and then told him that Bascot would be present at the forthcoming interview with Teramo.

Relieved, Gianni gave the Templar a smile of whole-hearted gratitude.

CHAPTER 9

The next morning Nicolaa de la Haye rose early and called for Gianni to attend her in her private chamber to assist in a scrutiny of some of the household accounts, a chore she usually performed on her own. She felt that the best way to ease the lad’s apprehension about the forthcoming meeting with the emissary was to keep him occupied and so far it seemed to be having a beneficial effect. His expression was a little more taut than usual, perhaps, but other than that, he seemed to have recovered his composure.

After they had been working for about two hours there was a light rap on the door and Clare came in. She had been up just as early as her mistress and gone into town to carry out her task of discovering what gossip, if any, there was about Edward Tisser.

Her expression was crestfallen as she told the castellan the little she had learned. “I visited three of the drapers in the town, lady, and, as you said, got them talking about Edward Tisser and the manner of his death under pretext of purchasing some linen for the household. All were very regretful to hear of his end, saying they held him in good repute as a merchant, and that he was a caring husband and father—and in evidence of that, they believed the reason he was going on pilgrimage was to ask the saint to cure his ailing son, who is only a baby and very ill. They think that is why he went off so precipitately, because he feared the child might die without the saint’s intercession. Beyond that, the first two had nothing more to say of him.

“But when I spoke to the third cloth merchant,” Clare continued, “I was told a little more about Tisser by his wife, who came to show me some samples of linen while her husband went to serve another customer. But I am afraid it is not much, nor might have any relevance to the draper’s murder.”

“And what did she tell you?” Nicolaa urged.

“She said this was not the first time that a tragedy of this kind had struck the Tisser family, for it was rumoured that Edward’s uncle—his father’s brother—was murdered as well. But she also said it was many years ago, when Edward’s younger brother, Adam, was only a very young boy. The uncle—whose name was Gilbert—apparently fell in the Trent River and drowned, and even though it was deemed an accident, there was a rumour he had been purposely pushed into the river.”

Nicolaa frowned as she searched her memory for report of the incident and could not recall it. “Whereabouts along the Trent did his drowning take place?”

“’Twas just off a lonely stretch of riverbank near Collingham, lady, within the bailiwick of the sheriff of Nottingham.”

The castellan nodded in understanding. Collingham was just over the border that separated the Nottingham jurisdiction from that of Lincoln, and explained why she had not heard of the death.

“If the uncle was, in truth, deliberately done to death, it is a very strange co-incidence that two close family members have both met their end by murder,” Nicolaa remarked, giving Gianni a meaningful glance. The boy returned her look, obviously remembering, as she did, that the Templar had always said that true coincidences were rare, and that if whatever events were involved were examined closely there was usually a link to be found between them.

“Did the cloth merchant’s wife explain why it was believed that the uncle was deliberately killed?” Nicolaa asked.

“She did, saying that he was a very successful dyer and, as is usual, kept the mixing of the ingredients he used a secret, and there were many other dyers who resented his skill enough to want him gone so as to get rid of his competition.”

“But dyers are not highly paid for their craft,” Nicolaa exclaimed. “Surely it would not be worth taking the risk of being hanged for so little reward.”

“That is what I said to the draper’s wife,” Clare replied, “and she told me that was only one opinion as to the reason for his demise, and that there was another.”

“Which is?” Nicolaa asked.

“Apparently Gilbert Tisser could be very disagreeable at times, and was often at odds with other people, especially those involved in the production and sale of his wares—wool suppliers, cloth merchants and the like,” Clare explained. “It was thought by some that he may have violently argued with one or the other of them and it had ended in his murder, even if it was only due to him being accidentally pushed into the river during the confrontation and drowning before he could be rescued.”

“I see,” Nicolaa replied. “And this murder, if it was one, took place how many years ago?”

“Master Adam Tisser is now about eighteen years of age, so ‘twould mayhap be fifteen or sixteen years.”

“A rare stretch between the two fatalities,” Nicolaa opined, “but still worth considering. Both took place in a lonely spot that was not overlooked and, if the dyer’s demise was due to murder, as was his nephew, Edward’s, then they may have some connection which should be investigated.”

She then asked Clare if she had spoken about the draper to Ellyn, the apprentice sempstress whose father was a weaver.

“Not yet, lady; I intend to do so this afternoon.”

“Good,” Nicolaa replied. “When you do, as well as any gossip she may know about Edward, also try to find out if she is aware of this rumour about the uncle and, if she is, if there is anything else she is able to add to what you have already been told.”

As Clare left the room a page arrived to tell the castellan that Bascot de Marins had arrived for Gianni’s interview with Arrigo Teramo and awaited their presence in the solar.

Nicolaa rose. “’Tis time, Gianni. Are you ready?”

The lad reluctantly nodded and followed her out of the room.

*************

As Gianni went down the stairs behind his mistress into the hall and across it to the staircase of the tower in which the solar was located, he made an attempt to regain the surety of the conclusions he had reached the night before while laying sleepless on his pallet. He had cogitated on the situation he was facing for many long hours, firstly imaging himself being called by the missing boy’s name of Umberto, to see if it sounded familiar, but it did not. The only name he had borne before the Templar had found him and christened him Gianni—in remembrance of Saint Giovanni whose feast was celebrated on the day on which they had met—had been the one that the other urchins had called him—Mutu—the Sicilian word for mute.

Then he considered that even though Umberto had been only five years old when he disappeared, surely, if he was the missing boy, as a noble’s son he would remember eating sumptuous foods and wearing fine clothes as Lady Nicolaa had suggested but, again, he could not remember ever doing so. All he could recall was being hungry and barely existing on the alms given by one of the two small churches near the wharves, and whatever he could beg or steal. There had been the odd act of generosity from the various food merchants that plied their trade around the wharves—a wizened apple or a scrap of rancid fish—but these occasions had been rare. As for clothing, the only garments he had ever worn until the Templar came and rescued him had been those provided to urchins in the neighbourhood by the nuns at a nearby convent to cover their nakedness—shapeless articles made of rough sacking cloth that was scratchy and full of lice. As for shoes—he had never had any at all.

To him, it seemed doubtful he was the missing boy; he had always believed himself to be a son of one of the putanas—prostitutes—of which there were many in the port, earning their living by servicing the great number of sailors on the boats that docked there. Some of the other waifs had said they had a mother amongst them and had been put out, as all male children were, to fend for themselves when they grew big enough to do so, while female children were kept by their dams to eventually enter the same trade as their mothers. He had thought it reasonable to assume that is what had happened to him, for he could not recall being anywhere except on the docks.

But, thinking on it further now, he supposed he could be Umberto if for some strange reason, such as the possibility of an accident in the manner that Lady Nicolaa had mentioned, might have happened to him during the fire in the house where Umberto was staying and caused the details of his early childhood to be dimmed beyond remembrance. For one long and exciting moment he imagined that he was, in fact, Umberto, and the grand life that would be his as the son of a noble lord. He would be feted, cosseted and respected and any desire he entertained would be granted in a moment. Lesser lords would court his favour and fine ladies would urge marriages with their daughters. Thought of the power he would wield was heady.

But overriding such dreams of grandeur was his great reluctance to leave England. Here in Lincoln he had a treasured position that he had worked very hard to gain, and served a mistress who he liked and esteemed. And not only would he be leaving her, but also the Templar who, he knew, bore a great love for him. In addition, there were the good friends he had made, such as Lambert, Roget and Ernulf, the serjeant of the garrison, all of whom had welcomed him into their company without reservation when he had been nothing but a poverty-stricken beggar. How could he leave them all behind and go to a faraway land where he would be surrounded by strangers? He did not want to countenance such a happening, not for one moment.

He had shivered in the darkness of the chamber where he was lying on his pallet as he thought of the forthcoming interview and now, as he followed Lady Nicolaa into the solar, it took all his resolution to square his shoulders and prepare to do as he had eventually decided last night—listen carefully to all Teramo had to say and then, before he made any commitment, pray most earnestly to God to direct his intention.

CHAPTER 10

When Teramo entered the solar, Gianni was standing between Nicolaa de la Haye and the Templar, both of whom were seated. The lad’s demeanour did not appear welcoming, but neither was it dismissive. His arms were at his side, his hands resting lightly on the belt at his waist, from which depended the writing implements he used for scribing.

The Italian strode forward until he reached the little group and then, after Nicolaa had introduced Bascot, he gave Gianni a courteous greeting.

“Buongiorno, Lord Umberto,” he said.

Gianni’s response was quick. He tapped the Templar lightly on the shoulder and make a series of gestures, ending in a chopping motion and pointing to his chest.

Bascot looked at the emissary. “It is Gianni’s wish that you do not address him by the missing boy’s name, or any honorific that might apply to him, until he is confident that he and Umberto are the same person.”

Teramo was taken aback at the lad’s reaction but did not allow his consternation to show.

“As you wish,” he said to Gianni and the lad nodded courteously.

“You will understand the reason for Gianni’s hesitation when I tell you that he has no memory of the circumstances you describe,” Nicolaa said, “not of bearing the name of the missing boy, or of living a life that would befit a noble’s son, nor of a fire or being lost—nothing at all. In his opinion, the conjecture that he is Umberto is mistaken.”

“It might be that the recollection has simply become faint in your mind,” Teramo said to Gianni. “You were very young at the time of the fire and young children often have fallible memories.”

He could see by the expression on Gianni’s face that he remained unconvinced, and the emissary, in an attempt to persuade him, repeated the similarities between the missing boy and himself. “You are the correct age to be Umberto, Sir Bascot found you living in Palermo which is where he disappeared, and you are, unfortunately, just as he was, stricken with muteness. Surely these circumstances cannot all be happenstance. It is my firm belief that the claim you are Umberto is a true one.”

But Gianni’s expression remained unsure and Teramo turned to Nicolaa. “One of the servants I brought with me was a member of the household staff in the house in Palermo that burned down when Umberto disappeared. This servant was assigned the task of caring for Umberto’s clothing during his stay there with his father and his father’s new wife and so was often in the boy’s company. I took the liberty of bringing him with me this morning and he is waiting outside in the hall. Will you allow him to come into your presence and see if Gianni recognises him?”

Nicolaa looked at Gianni and he nodded. “Very well,” she told the Italian, who at once went outside and returned with the middle-aged manservant that had been included in his escort.

Teramo led him forward and said, “This is Enzu. He not only had Umberto’s clothing in his care, but also assisted the boy to dress every morning and to remove his attire at night before he retired, so knew his charge intimately.”

After explaining that Enzu understood the Italian language, but was more comfortable speaking in Sicilianu, the language spoken in Sicily, he then turned to him and asked in that language if he thought Gianni was Umberto.

After staring intently at Gianni, the servant nodded. “Se, Se,” he confirmed. “È iddu.”

Gianni was, of course, fully conversant in Sicilianu, as he was in the Italian language spoken on the mainland of the country, having learned the latter from the many Italian sailors that brought their boats into the port, and the traders that often sailed on them. But Bascot, although he spoke Italian fluently, having picked it up easily from his excellent grounding in Latin, was not so familiar with the Sicilian dialect—which differed from the Italian tongue due to the influence of the language spoken by Greek and Arab settlers in Sicily during preceding centuries—and his vocabulary was limited to the words he had learnt during his short time on the island many years before. The meaning of the servant’s statement, however, was fairly obvious—‘Yes, yes, it is he’—and the Templar looked at Gianni to see if he remembered the manservant, but although the lad regarded Enzu for several moments, he finally shook his head firmly and gestured to Bascot that he had never seen him before.

Am uncomfortable silence followed the Templar’s translation of Gianni’s answer. Teramo’s expression was frustrated and angry and the servant, Enzu, cowered beside him at the response, not understanding the English words Bascot had said, but easily guessing their import.

Lady Nicolaa stepped into the breech. She wanted to give Gianni every opportunity to satisfy himself that the claim was false and asked Teramo if the servant had been on duty in the household at the time Umberto had gone missing on the evening of the fire. When told that he was, she suggested that the servant describe the circumstances surrounding the incident to see if it might spark some remembrance in Gianni’s memory.

Curtly Teramo agreed with the request and then, in Sicilianu, instructed the servant to do as she asked. As Enzu told the tale, the emissary translated his words into English for the benefit of the castellan and Bascot.

The Sicilian became more relaxed as he told his story. The fire, he told them, had broken out late at night, after all were in bed and the cause, it was thought, had been an overturned candle that had been left burning in the room where his master and guests had eaten the evening meal. Since the room had been empty so late at night, the fire had quickly spread, setting alight the tapestries hanging on the walls and a pile of table linen stacked in a corner. Before long smoke filled the air in the corridors outside the chamber and nearly everyone had been woken and some of the women servants had begun to scream.

“It was not long before we were all trying to escape,” Teramo translated, “and there was much confusion. I ran outside with everyone else, and when I got there, I saw the old woman who had been Umberto’s nurse and always slept in his room, running frantically around with Lord Rinaldo, the boy’s father, looking everywhere for the child. She, the nurse, told me…”

Here Enzu faltered, rubbing a hand over his withered cheeks. He looked frightened and drops of sweat began to drip down from the sparse strands of his hair onto his forehead, but at a stern look from Teramo, he took a deep breath and went on. “The nurse told me that when she heard the women servants screaming, she got out of bed and went outside into the corridor to find out the cause. As soon as she smelled the smoke she realised there was a fire inside the house, and ran back into the chamber where Umberto was sleeping to take him outside and away from the danger, but he was gone. She searched the room for him—under the bed and in the coffers that held his clothes—but he was nowhere to be found and she decided he must have become frightened and climbed out of the open casement while she was in the corridor. She then immediately  went running to tell the boy’s father of his disappearance. Together they went and searched outside, as did many of the other servants, including myself, but Umberto was never seen again.”

Nicolaa looked at Gianni. “Do you remember such a happening?” she asked. For answer, Gianni shook his head, and the castellan turned back to the emissary.

“This servant must have been familiar not only with Umberto’s clothing but also his playthings, and a child will often remember a favourite garment or a treasured toy when he has forgotten all else. Have this servant describe them.”

After Enzu had been given her instruction by the emissary, he explained that Umberto’s clothes were all of fine material, soft linen for those next to his skin, and rich wools and silk for the outer garments with caps to match. As for toys, he had some pin-wheels with different coloured strands that could be twirled in the wind and also a spinning top. In addition, there had been a carved horse painted blue that had been given to him by his father’s new wife.

At mention of the horse, Gianni stiffened, for the image seemed familiar. He could almost see it in his mind’s eye—a dark blue horse with a white mane and tail, black eyes and prancing legs. But whether or not it had been a toy, he could not recall. It might have been the symbol on a badge worn by one of the sailors that came into the harbour in Palermo, or a figure painted on the wall of one of the churches where he and the other urchins were given alms. Was it possible it was a valid memory of a time when he had been Umberto? But that could not be for he remembered nothing else of the possessions the servant had described. He would have to think carefully on the horse and try to recall where he had seen it. And, since he was not sure, he carefully kept his expression composed so that no one in the chamber should be aware of his recognition.

After describing a few more items that had belonged to Umberto, such as shoes and cloaks, Enzu fell silent and Lady Nicolaa once again looked at Gianni. After he gave his head another shake of negation, the castellan turned to Teramo.

“Perhaps this exercise will prove more fruitful over time, when Gianni has had an opportunity to reflect on this servant’s recounting,” she said to him. “If you are willing to wait until he has done so, you may remain here in the castle until the matter is, hopefully, resolved one way or another. Now you have spoken to Gianni, my stricture on your keeping apart will, of course, be removed and you and your servants may take your meals in the hall.”

The Italian bowed his head, accepting defeat, and, with one last impatient glance at Gianni, he and Enzu left the solar.

*************

“Our Italian visitor is not very pleased,” Nicolaa commented when the door shut behind them.

“He has good reason to wish for success; although it is unfair to blame an emissary for the failure of a mission he has been given through no fault of his own, it often happens,” Bascot replied, “just as the reverse can be true and undeserved approbation is heaped on triumph. Teramo fears the former and greatly desires the latter, especially from the count, his father.”

He then spoke to Gianni about what the servant, Enzu, had related. “You are certain you do not remember any of the details or happenings that he spoke of?” he asked.

Gianni gave a nod and made a few gestures. Nicolaa, who had become familiar with many of the movements the lad made, understood what he was conveying as well as the Templar.

“You are quite right to wish to be sure, Gianni. It will be well for you to do as I suggest and think on it for a space and….,”  in mid-sentence she turned to Bascot, “while he does so it will give us time to try and find out more about Count di Marsi, and hopefully, the man who is Umberto’s father.”

The Templar agreed. “I despatched a letter to Master Berard in London last night, asking if he has any knowledge of the count or his family. I should receive a response in a few days.”

“And I sent a message to Bishop William at the cathedral, requesting he meet with me tomorrow to enlist his aid in discovering the name of the priest who gave Gianni’s name to the family. If we can find him, he may be able to help us with further information about the affair.

“I can only think that this claim has been made in good faith,” she added, “for there does not appear to be any untoward motive attached to it that would suggest otherwise. But, since King John is involved, even if only marginally, it would be unwise to accept its validity without question.”

“I concur, lady,” Bascot replied and, beside him, Gianni carefully nodded.

CHAPTER 11

Later that day, after the midday meal had been served and eaten, Nicolaa retired to her private chamber to mull over the two conundrums that had landed in their midst—the mystery of Gianni’s identity and the doubt surrounding who had been the perpetrator of the death of the draper. Both would take some time to resolve—if they ever were—and the waiting could prove arduous for everyone involved.

In an attempt to make the situation easier for Gianni, she had, before the Templar had left to return to the preceptory, suggested to the lad that the servants who worked in the castle be made aware of the reason for the emissary’s presence.

“If it is not, speculation will run rife. Everyone will be aware that Teramo came up to the solar for a meeting that included not only myself and de Marins, but also you, who, like the emissary, are Italian. It will not take a far leap of their imagination for them to surmise his presence here in Lincoln may somehow be linked to yourself and it would be best they are told the truth rather than give rein to the invention of wild rumour.”

Gianni had been in agreement, and she told him to tell the secretarius, Lambert, of the emissary’s purpose while she would inform her steward, Eudo, and Ernulf, the serjeant of the garrison, instructing them to relate the reason for Teramo’s visit to the rest of the servants and men-at-arms. This latter she had done just before she taking her place on the dais for the midday meal—keeping the explanation confined only to the fact that the Italian had come to investigate the possibility that Gianni might be a relative of Teramo’s patron in Italy—and, when her husband took his place beside her, she told him what she had done.

Gerard approved her actions. “Better to err through caution than rashness, especially where John is concerned,” he said, and then asked if she had discovered any information about Tisser’s death and she told him about the draper’s uncle, and how there had been a rumour that he had been murdered.

“I hope to have more information soon from Clare,” she told him. “And if it seems to indicate there is reason to believe the two deaths may be related, I will let you know so you can make a decision as to whether or not an investigation should be made into Tisser’s murder.”

Camville had grunted his assent, and then let the matter drop.

Now, sitting in front of her desk alone, she pulled a piece of parchment in front of her and, taking up a quill, dipped it in the ink bottle beside her and began to write down the salient details of the information that the Sicilian servant, Enzu, had given about the missing Umberto di Marsi and, once that was done, picked up Gianni’s notes of the results of his examination of Edward Tisser’s corpse. She had almost finished reviewing it when there was a knock at the door.

It was Clare. Her face was slightly flushed and she seemed elated.

“I have just spoken to Ellyn,” she said, “and she has given me some facts that may be relevant to the draper’s death.”

She paused to take a deep breath before going on. “Ellyn is very chatty,” she said, “and it wasn’t hard to get her talking while we were eating the midday meal. When I asked her if she had known Edward Tisser, she said right away that she had seen him often in her father’s workshop when he came to place orders for cloth. She then said that on her last visit home—which was a couple of weeks ago—her father had mentioned that Edward had been in his workshop on that very same day, and had been greatly upset over his little son’s illness, saying it was his fault the child was ill. When Ellyn’s father had asked him how he could think such a thing, the draper had said it was because he was under the shadow of an old transgression for which his son was being made to suffer.”

“Did he tell Ellyn’s father the nature of this wrongdoing?” Nicolaa asked.

“No, lady, he did not. And her father, Ellyn said, did not like to ask.”

“So that is why he decided to go on a pilgrimage in such haste,” Nicolaa mused, “to seek absolution and thereby gain mercy for his child. I wonder if this sin had any connection with his death.”

“That is what I wondered as well, lady,” Clare replied.

*************

In the chamber he had been allotted in the old keep, the Italian emissary, Teramo, paced the floor angrily. His interview with Gianni had not passed at all as he had expected. Why was this stubborn young lad so reluctant to accept the claim that he was Umberto? He was, after all, no more than a clerk, and a mute one at that, and should have leapt at the chance to gain such a high position and the riches that came with it, even if he was uncertain as to whether or not he deserved it.

The Italian shook his head and cursed. What ailed the youngster? Had the Templar imbued him with his own lofty ideals while Gianni had been in his charge? Or had it been Lady Nicolaa, whose reputation for integrity was well known?

Whatever the reason, he must find a way to overcome it. And if he could not do it by fair means, he would do it by foul.

**************

Later that evening, Gianni again lay sleepless on his pallet. Before he retired he had taken Lambert aside and signed to the new secretarius—who was well versed in the gestures he used from having penned the book describing them—the reason the Italian emissary had come and then asked him to relay it to the new young clerk, Ewan, who had been hired to fill the gap left in the scriptorium staff by Blund’s death and Lambert’s promotion. The secretarius had received the news with surprise, but also with gladness for the possible receipt of good fortune for Gianni, even though he felt a pang of sorrow at the prospect that, if Gianni accepted the claim, it would mean he would have to leave Lincoln.

Shortly afterwards, Gianni had retired, but again found sleep difficult, for as Enzu had related the details about Umberto and the night of the fire, the familiarity of the Sicilian language had washed over him like an unwelcome tide. The most prominent recollection of his life in Sicily was the griping discomfort of starvation, and the vivid memory had unsettled him.

Because of this, it was a long time before he fell asleep and, when he did, he suffered nightmares. The dreams were terrifying, filled with images of fiery flames and a frightening monster, half-man, half-devil, holding a pitchfork high above his head, riding towards him on the back of the blue horse that had seemed so familiar when Enzu had mentioned it.

CHAPTER 12

The next morning, Nicolaa was again at work early in the solar, preparing for the day ahead. The evening before she had told her husband, in this same chamber, of Gianni’s meeting with the Italian, and of his servant’s recounting; when she finished, Camville had sat back in his chair with lowered brows. While they had been eating earlier in the hall, she had seen him glance several times to where Teramo sat at a side table picking at the meal in front of him, and Gerard had narrowed his eyes both at the emissary and also at his two guards, ravenously stuffing food in their mouths at the back of the huge chamber at the table where the castle men-at-arms were seated.

She was not, therefore, surprised when her husband voiced his opinion. “This bastard-born Italian is not a good trencherman,” he said, “and when a man does not desire food, it is usually because there is something worrisome gnawing at his belly. And his two guards are no more than routiers and not of the standard that a noble such as di Marsi would send on what is claimed to be an important mission. Do not trust any of them, wife. There is some plan afoot here that you are not privy to.”

Nicolaa nodded in agreement. Her husband was a good judge of men and, besides, his opinion concurred with her own.

She had then gone on to relate to him what Clare had, through Ellyn, discovered about Tisser speaking of some old sin for which he felt responsible.

“It may be nothing more than a reference to some rash incident from his youth,” she said, “and have no connection at all to his murder, but still I think it gives enough cause to try and gather more information.”

“From whom?” Gerard had asked.

“I would like to speak to Tisser’s wife and younger brother and ask them about this sin of which he spoke,” Nicolaa replied. “If there is someone who held the draper in enmity, especially if it is longstanding, they may well know who it is.”

The sheriff had given his consent and she had accordingly sent a servant to the Tisser household, asking that Mary and Adam Tisser come to the castle early the next morning.

Now she sat, reading a message received from Bishop William in response to her own, saying he would be pleased to meet with her at any time during that same day.

There was a knock at the door and a page entered to inform her that the draper’s wife and brother were below in the hall. She sent the page to the scriptorium for Gianni, and when he arrived, explained briefly about the forthcoming interview and that she wished him to make a record of what was said so it could be used by the sheriff if he decided to launch a formal investigation into the draper’s death.

The castellan was pleased to see Gianni’s expression lighten. A search into the mystery of Tisser’s murder would help to distract his mind from his own quandary.

When Mary and Adam came into the solar, Nicolaa was seated at the far end, Gianni standing unobtrusively behind her. The castellan had told him not to take notes while they were in the room, but to do his best to remember all that was said and write down any relevant details afterward.

Neither the widow nor her brother-by-marriage were remarkable in appearance; Mary had a plain, kind face now reddened and swollen from weeping, while Adam was a strongly built young man, with eyes and hair of dark brown and a countenance etched with lines of sorrow.

The castellan spoke to both kindly, giving her condolences for the loss of the head of their small family, and asking how they were coping.

“We are well enough, lady, in the circumstances,” Mary replied. “My two daughters are naturally upset, as am I, but we can do no other than bear with it. As to the business, my husband’s clerk, Bracel, had been with him many years and is going to help Adam with its management.”

“What about your youngest child, who is a son, and only a baby, I believe? I have been told he is ailing. Is his condition still the same?”

Mary nodded. “The leech said that Dickon’s humours are out of balance and has given me medicines for him, but none have been of any help. He has great trouble getting his breath, and coughs a lot. He sleeps hardly at all and has no vitality.”

“It might be worthwhile to take him to see Brother Jehan, the infirmarian at the Priory of All Saint’s. He is a very learned physician and may be able to suggest an alternative treatment for your son. If you go there, you may tell him I recommended you to him.”

Mary’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you, lady. I will take him today.”

Nicolaa now approached the reason she had wanted to see them. Addressing Mary, she said, “I have been told that it was because of your son’s illness that your husband was going on pilgrimage. Is that so?”

Mary’s eyes darkened again. “Yes. I did not want Edward to rush off in such haste, but he was insistent, saying it was his fault Dickon was so ill.”

“And what cause had he to think that?” Nicolaa asked, feigning surprise at the statement.

“I do not know, he only told me that he was guilty of some iniquity that Dickon was paying for, in just the way as it says in the bible that the sins of the father shall descend on their children down the generations. I did not understand what he was talking about and when I asked him to explain, he refused.”

The castellan turned to Adam, who had been standing self-consciously by Mary’s side. “Do you know the nature of this sin of which your brother spoke?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “He never mentioned it to me, but Edward was always a good man; I cannot believe he would be guilty of any wrongdoing.”

Nicolaa sat back in her chair. There was reason enough in Edward’s last words to his wife to suggest he was fearful of retribution for some incident in his past, and might have been killed for the commission of it. “And you do not know, either of you, of any enemies that Edward may have had?”

Both shook their heads and looked at her with a wonder in their eyes as to why she was asking such a question. Clare had told the castellan that Mary had lived in Boston until she married Edward about seven years before, so it was unlikely she would know any of the details concerning his uncle’s death fifteen years ago, or if Edward had any involvement in it. And Adam looked to be only about seventeen or eighteen, so would be too young to remember the event at the time it occurred. Still, she could not discount that they might have heard the incident mentioned and hoped to find out whether or not they had by approaching the subject in a sidelong fashion.

Leaning forward, she spoke earnestly. “Because Edward’s money and possessions were all left intact, neither my husband nor I are satisfied that Edward met his death at the hands of outlaws. That is why I wanted to speak to you both, for those circumstances indicate that Edward may have been killed by someone who bore him malice.”

The widow’s face crumpled but, to her credit, she did not cry, merely leant on Adam’s arm to keep her steady. “But who could it be? We would have known if he was at odds with anyone, and he was not.”

“It may be concerned with this old sin that your husband spoke of,” Nicolaa told her. “Did he ever discuss with either of you a serious dissension with someone in the past, perhaps many years ago?”

Both shook their heads.

“Is there anyone else who might know? Another relative, perhaps?” she asked Adam.

“There are no family members left except myself now,” Adam said. “And I can think of no acquaintance that might be familiar with such a happening.”

Mary, however, disagreed. “Bracel might know,” she said. “He is the clerk I mentioned, lady. He assisted Edward, and his father before him, and has been with the Tisser family for a very long time. He may be aware of any old argument in which my husband was involved.”

“Then you will tell him to attend me this afternoon,” Nicolaa ordered and then, after a pause, said, “I have but one last question to put to you: who knew that Edward was leaving to go on pilgrimage on the morning he died?”

Mary looked questioningly at Edward, and when he made no response, she said, “There were many people, I suppose - all of us in the household naturally, including the servants, and perhaps some of our neighbours who saw him leave with the pilgrim’s hat and staff. Why do you ask?”

“Because, if the suspicion that he was done to death by a hand other than outlaws proves a true one, then the murderer must have known that Edward would be on the road leading south at that time in order to lay in wait for him.”

“But Edward would have been travelling down

Ermine Street on that morning even if he had not decided to go on pilgrimage,” Mary said. “He had an appointment to go and see some samples a weaver in Coleby had made for him, and told me, just before he left, that Bracel could go in his stead.”

Nicolaa was gratified by the news. Coleby was just a short distance further down

Ermine Street from the spot where Edward’s body had been found. This gave credence to the killer having knowledge of Edward’s whereabouts at that particular time and so could have been waiting in the greenwood for him to appear on his way to keep his appointment with the weaver.

She accepted the information she had just been given in silence and made no comment on it, merely cautioning them both to keep private any mention that an enquiry into Edward’s death was in progress, and to tell Bracel to do the same, lest the murderer, if he knew of it, take measures to prevent his identity being revealed.

“That holds especially true if the reason for this crime is related to your family,” she added, “for it will mean that both of you, and also your two daughters and son, mistress, could be at risk of a similar attack. All of you must take especial care in your daily regime. Never go out from home alone, especially after darkness has fallen, and ensure that, when you do leave, you go only to places where people are gathered, such as at the market, or on Ermine Street.”

Both Adam and Mary nodded miserably and promised to do as she asked.

CHAPTER 13

After Adam and Mary left the solar, Nicolaa called Clare to attend her while she went to the cathedral to speak to Bishop William.

William of Blois had been consecrated bishop two years before. He was a tall man, kindly and with a precise way of thinking and speaking. He listened carefully as the castellan told him about her Italian visitor and that he had been sent as an emissary of Count di Marsi of Abruzzo in Italy to present a claim that her clerk, Gianni, might be the missing son of one of the count’s relatives. She then related the similarities between the two boys—that they were of comparative ages, both were mute—and that Gianni had been brought to England from Palermo, the city where the missing boy vanished.

“Knowledge of Gianni’s existence came about through a book he inspired to be written,” she continued, “a description of the gestures he employs to communicate with others and of which a few copies were made to assist others who suffer from muteness, a speech impediment or deafness. Apparently one of these books made its way to Italy and it was there, through the agency of an English cleric who was in Italy at the time, that the di Marsi family were told of Gianni’s background and the embassy was arranged.

“Gianni is a valued member of my household staff,” she went on, “and, as such, it is my responsibility to have a care for his wellbeing should he decide to go to Italy to meet the relatives of this missing boy. To that end, I would like to try and find out more about the Italian family that has launched this enquiry than has been related to me by the emissary—who is naturally biased on their behalf. And that is why I have come to you, in the hope you can aid me in finding the priest who told them of Gianni, so that I may learn of the reputation assigned to Count di Marsi and his relatives from a person who is impartial in the matter.”

She did not mention her instinctive distrust of Teramo; time enough for that if, and when, she discovered reason to doubt his veracity.

“I completely understand your concern,” Bishop William replied, “and will help you in any way I can. What is the cleric’s name?”

“Unfortunately, the emissary claims not to know it,” Nicolaa admitted, “but he did tell me the priest mentioned he had been in Lincoln. Because of that, I have come to ask if you are aware of any priest in one of the churches in the Lincoln diocese that has, within the last year or two, had occasion to make a trip to Italy?”

As was the bishop’s habit, he gave the question a long consideration before he spoke. Finally, he said, “There are none that I can recall, but that does not mean there is not one, for it is quite conceivable this priest may have been sent on a mission just before I was elected bishop and any advisement sent here of his journey did not come to my notice. This would especially be true if his time abroad was not of a long duration—such as to carry a message to the Holy See, or as part of the retinue of a higher ranking cleric on an embassy to the Pope. Such assignments may be completed within two or three months, and he may well have been back in England before I took up my office. Allow me a short space to peruse the cathedral records and, if I find mention of a priest going on such a journey, I will make you privy to his name.”

The castellan left the cathedral a little disappointed that the bishop had not been able to give her more immediate assistance, but she knew he would make every effort to obtain the information she had asked for and, with that, must be content.

**************

A little later that morning, Bracel was brought before her. Gianni was present when she received the clerk, and she had instructed the lad that this time he was to make notes of the conversation while it was in progress.

She studied the clerk for a moment before speaking to him, seeing a slightly balding man of advancing years whose brow was furrowed with apprehension.

“Have you been fully apprised of my discussion with Mistress Tisser and your late master’s brother this morning?” she asked.

“I have, lady,” the clerk replied. “And am most shocked there is a possibility Master Edward may have been murdered by an enemy instead of brigands, for I know of no one who bore him malice, not even in the past.”

There was a slight defensiveness in his attitude which Nicolaa approved of as a sign of loyalty to the man who had been his master.

“Did you hear Edward speak of the ‘old sin’ he mentioned to his wife?”

Bracel shook his head. “Never, lady. Nor do I know of any transgressions he may have committed in his youth. He was always steady in habit, even as a young man. ”

“He told his wife that the penance for this sin of which he was speaking had, as is said in the bible, fallen upon his son by being passed down through the generations,” Nicolaa said. “Is it possible it was Edward’s father who was guilty of this sin, and that is what he meant?”

For a moment, Bracel looked uncomfortable with the question, and he seemed to struggle with his answer. “I suppose it could be so, lady. John Tisser was not an easy man to deal with; he had an uncertain temper which could flare up at any who displeased him.”

“Not much different from his brother Gilbert, then,” Nicolaa said, “who, I understand, was also often at odds with others.”

Surprise flared on Bracel’s face at mention of Edward’s uncle, but he controlled it and simply replied, “That is so, lady.”

The castellan leaned forward. “And, just like Edward, there is a rumour that Gilbert was also murdered.”

“I did hear of it at the time Gilbert died,” Bracel admitted.

“And do you believe it could be possible?”

The clerk gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps,” he said. “There were many who bore Gilbert umbrage for one reason or another, mainly for the fact that he was tight-fisted when it came to paying the merchants he dealt with. It could be possible that his death was the result of an accident due to the violence that often accompanies a violent argument.”

“And what was his brother John’s opinion?” she asked.

“He dismissed as impossible the notion that Gilbert was murdered,” Bracel replied firmly. “He said Gilbert could not swim very well and had probably just fallen into the river and drowned while fetching the water he used in his dye-making.”

Nicolaa changed the direction of her questions. “What was the manner of John Tisser’s death?”

“He was overtaken by a fierce spate of vomiting and a loosening of his bowels which, after a few hours, rendered him unconscious. A physician was called, but despite his ministrations, Master John never regained his senses and died the same day. The physician was unable to determine the cause, saying only that he must have eaten or drunk something that was noxious.”

“And his wife; she is also deceased I understand. How did she die?”

“That I do not know, lady,” Bracel replied. “A short time after her husband was overtaken by his ailment, Mistress Emmaline went on a visit to her father in Nottingham and, while she was there, was also taken ill. Her sister, Richilda, wrote to Edward and told him of his mother’s sickness and he left right away to attend her, but when he returned he said her malady had proved fatal and, by the time he arrived, she had already been buried in the graveyard of the family parish church in Nottingham. He was very distraught, as would be expected, and seemed reluctant to speak of her passing, even when receiving condolences from those in the town who had been acquainted with her, so that neither I, nor anyone else that I know of, was ever told anything more of the condition that caused her death.”

“What happened to the receipts for the dyes Gilbert made?” she asked, this time catching Bracel off guard by veering to another aspect of the Tisser family’s history.

The clerk hesitated for a moment and then said,. “Again, lady, I fear I must tell you I do not know. I did ask Master John about them at the time of Gilbert’s death, but he gave me an angry answer, saying that his fool of a brother had hidden them too well to be found, and they were lost forever.”

“Was Gilbert Tisser married?” she asked.

“He was, lady.”

“Did he have any children?”

“Three, I believe.”

“Is it possible he may have given the dye receipts to his wife, or mayhap one of his offspring?”

The clerk seemed at a loss to find an answer. “He could have done,” he said with hesitation, “but, if so, the receipts have not been utilised, for there has never been any trace of the richness of the colours Gilbert used to make in any of the wool or cloth that has been for sale at local fairs since his death. As you will know, lady, the dye used to colour the scarlet cloth for which Lincoln has become famous is made from the bodies of the female of an insect that lives on the live oak trees in our district, which are collected and then crushed and dried to make the dye. All of the Lincoln dyers use it, but Gilbert had a method of preparation, either in the drying or the steeping, or perhaps even by addition of some substance that is unknown, that resulted in a far richer hue of red, of which, it would appear, he told no one. Whatever his secret was, it died with him.”

Nicolaa regarded him for a moment and then, deciding there was no more, at the moment, that the clerk could tell her, she dismissed him with a warning that she might want to speak to him again. After he left, she glanced at Gianni.

“I think there is cause to look further into the manner of Edward Tisser’s demise. There have been too many sudden deaths in one family for my liking—Gilbert Tisser drowned, John Tisser passing from ingesting some mysterious substance, his wife, Emmaline, expiring from it is not known what, and now Edward murdered after uttering strange words to his wife about an old sin. Write up notes of the conversation I have just had with the clerk, Gianni, and add it to the information Clare has discovered, and I shall relay it all to my husband to gain his consent for an investigation.”

CHAPTER 14

Earlier that morning Bascot had left the Lincoln preceptory to ride to the commandery at Temple Bruer, which was located a few miles south of Lincoln. Although he had sent a message to London requesting to be advised of anything that was known of Count di Marsi, or his relatives, Feradac MacHeth had told him of a knight at the Temple Bruer preceptory that might also have some knowledge that would aid him in his quest for information.

“The brother’s name is Morgan ap Griffid,” MacHeth had told him. “I met him when I arrived in London just before I came to Lincoln. He had suffered a grievous injury to his spine during a clash with the infidel in Outremer when his horse was killed under him and, as it fell, pinned him to the ground. I stayed a few days in his company until I was sent here, and he to Temple Bruer, and I recall him mentioning he had been posted to the Order’s commandery at Ormelle in Italy for a time before being sent to Outremer. Although Ormelle is some distance from Rome, he may still have heard of the count. Temple Bruer is not too far distant from Lincoln, and I gladly give you permission to go there and speak to him.”

Bascot accordingly set out at first light. He had travelled the road to this preceptory before, on the sad occasion when he and the other brothers in the Lincoln commandery had taken the body of Emilius, the Templar monk who had previously held the position of draper, to be interred in the graveyard there. Memories of that time assailed him as he rode. Nearly all of the folk in Lincoln had turned out to honour the procession to Emilius’ final resting place, lining the length of the track that led down the outside of the northwest wall to the banks of the Witham River. He had been a courageous knight, with a full measure of devotion to God and a love of humankind. His passing had caused great sadness to many.

Now, after crossing the river and making his way down

Ermine Street for a few miles, he reached the turnoff that led to Temple Bruer. It was but a short distance down the track, set amidst the desolate heathland that stretched almost as far as the eye could see, and dotted with the sheep whose wool provided funds to aid Templar brothers overseas.

Soon the stout walls of the palisade that surrounded the preceptory came into view, the top of the round church and attached tower inside the walls dominating the skyline. When Bascot rode up to the gate he was, as a brother of the Order, admitted immediately by the man-at-arms on the gate. This preceptory was far larger than the one at Lincoln, and comprised of over a hundred brothers and lay servants. After riding through the gate he dismounted at the edge of the large exercise ground in the middle of the compound and a serjeant approached and politely asked the reason for his arrival. When he said he wished to speak to the commandery’s preceptor, the serjeant led him past some storehouses where sacks of wool were being loaded onto wagons to a building that housed a refectory, dormitories and also a room used as an office by the Preceptor, an older monk named Geoffrey de Rennes.

De Rennes was about sixty years of age, tall and with an angular build. He was already acquainted with Bascot from the time they had both attended Emilius’ interment. His shrewd grey eyes above a beard of almost the same colour regarded Bascot as he listened to his fellow Templar explain that he had come to ask permission to speak to one of the knights in the commandery, Morgan ap Griffid, who he had been told had recently been posted to Temple Bruer after a serious injury sustained in Outremer.

“Yes, he is here. I am afraid he will never again be fit enough to wield a sword against the infidel, but he serves the Order here well in an administrative capacity. May I enquire the reason for your wish to have speech with him?”

“Of course, Preceptor,” Bascot replied. “I am come on behalf of Lady Nicolaa de la Haye, the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, to try and gather information to assist her in an enquiry she is making on behalf of one of her clerks, a lad of about seventeen years of age. Recently an emissary from Italy arrived in Lincoln claiming the lad was the missing son of an Italian noble, but since there might be reason to doubt the validity of this declaration, she would like to gather any facts that are available about the noble’s family to aid in proving it one way or the other. It was at the suggestion of Preceptor MacHeth in Lincoln that I am here, for he met Brother Morgan briefly in London who, during a conversation they had together, mentioned that he had served for a time in Ormelle and so might be possessed of information that would assist her.”

De Rennes nodded, and then said, with the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Would this lad you mention be the same one you brought from Sicily and sometimes assists you in investigations of secret murder?”

“He is, Preceptor, and for that reason, I must admit to a private interest in his welfare.”

De Rennes nodded. “I will take you to Brother Morgan; I am sure he will be only too willing to help if he can.”

*************

The preceptor led Bascot outside the main building and back to the sheds where the sacks of wool were still being stacked on wains. As they walked, de Rennes said that Brother Morgan was a true Celt both in speech and appearance. “He accepts his misfortune readily as God’s will and says that although he can no longer fight for Christ by bearing arms, he is, through the Lord’s grace, still able to assist in the battle by ensuring that funds to support our brothers in the front lines are enough to keep them well armed and mounted.”

The Welsh Templar was standing alongside one of the wagons, supporting himself on a staff. He looked to be about twenty-five years of age and, as de Rennes had said, his Celtic heritage was evident in the short dark curls in his beard and around his tonsure. The results of his injury were evident in his cruelly twisted body but, with the aid of the staff, he managed to hold himself upright. When he was introduced to his visitor, he responded in a voice that had a deep and lilting Welsh accent.

After de Rennes had explained to the crippled monk that Bascot had come to speak to him about his time in Ormelle, the preceptor suggested they go to the refectory to discuss the matter. With a painful limping gait, of which he seemed to take no notice, Brother Morgan followed them into the large dining hall where the monks took their meals.

“There is another refectory outside the palisade for the lay servants,” the preceptor explained. “There are too many needed to care for the sheep and oversee the shearing than can be accommodated inside the compound.”

Except for a lay servant setting out bowls for the midday meal in two hours time, the refectory was empty and the three brothers took seats on one of the benches set on either side of the long wooden tables that filled the room. De Rennes called to the servant to bring them all a small cup of ale, and after it had been served, he and Brother Morgan listened as Bascot recounted the claim that had been put forward by Teramo. He told them of the similarities between Gianni and the missing boy, Umberto; the sameness of age and the fact that they were both mute.

“But Gianni does not remember any of the details the emissary has given about Umberto, nor remember a time when he may have been him and, because of that, is reluctant to accept that he is, in truth, this lad. At the moment, he is taking time to reflect and so his resolution may change. If it does, and he decides to accompany the emissary to Italy, Lady Nicolaa and I are concerned about Gianni’s safety once he arrives there. If there is another heir who expected his father’s large inheritance if Umberto was not found, it is quite possible they may take umbrage with Gianni and wish to do him harm. Because of that, it is most important to try and determine, if we can, whether or not the count and his relative, who is the missing boy’s father, are honourable men and will afford him protection if such a situation arises. And so I have come here to learn whether or not, Brother Morgan, you have any knowledge of the di Marsi family.”

The Welsh brother took a few moments to search his memory before answering. “While I was in Ormelle I did hear mention of the count, but only in connection with a relative—a nephew, I believe—who is a cardinal. I seem to recall that this cardinal was well spoken of and, if it is of any comfort, nothing was ever said in my hearing to either his, or his uncle’s, discredit, so it would appear they are both men of good repute.”

Morgan shook his head regretfully. “That is all that I know about them, I am afraid. I wish I could be of more help.”

Bascot was disappointed, but thanked the Welshman all the same, and then, as he was rising from the table to take his leave, de Rennes asked him a question.

“You said that the missing boy’s father is now married to a woman of Sicily. May I ask if you know her name?”

Bascot shook his head in reply and asked the preceptor why he thought her identity might be pertinent.

“It may not be,” de Rennes admitted, “but if Gianni decides to go back to Italy, she will stand in the place of a mother to him and her influence might affect his reception there. It may be to his advantage to try and learn details of her character.”

“Lady Nicolaa can ask the emissary for her name,” Bascot replied, “but even if we are apprised of it, I am sure it will be just as difficult, if not more so, to find out about her as it is about her husband and the count.”

“Perhaps not,” the preceptor said. “Just over twenty years ago, I was posted to our preceptory in Messina, and became very familiar with the nobles of the ruling class in Sicily, and also their reputations. Although she would have been quite young at that time, I may have heard mention of her family and whether or not they were held in esteem.”

Afterwards, as Bascot rode back to Lincoln, he had to admit that although he had not learned anything useful from Brother Morgan, de Rennes suggestion that it might be helpful to try and learn more about Rinaldo’s second wife was a wise one. On his return, he would suggest to Lady Nicolaa that she ask Teramo for information about her.

CHAPTER 15

After the evening meal was served in the keep, the castellan sent for Gianni. She had spoken to her husband about the draper’s murder, telling him she believed there were grounds for a formal enquiry and suggested Gianni take charge of it.

“When John’s servant was murdered in Canterbury eighteen months ago, Gianni was tireless in looking into the matter and had made good headway into finding incriminating evidence even before de Marins arrived and took over the investigation. If you will allow Miles de Laxton to assist him as he did during that time, I am certain his efforts will prove worthwhile.”

The sheriff gave his consent, knowing that de Laxton, one of his household knights, and literate, had aided in the interrogation of possible witnesses in the former enquiry by asking them questions that Gianni, being mute, could not, reading them from where the lad had written them down on his wax tablet. The pair had apparently worked well together and his wife’s proposition seemed a reasonable one.

As Gianni made his way up the stairs to the chamber where he often took dictation from his mistress, his heart was heavy. He hoped that she had not called him to tell him she had discovered some news that would help to confirm his identity as that of Umberto. Mealtimes that day had been a trial as Teramo had been present at both and Gianni had sensed the Italian’s eyes boring disapprovingly at his back as he had attempted to eat. Had it not been for the friendly presence of Lambert and the new clerk, Ewan, and the nods and smiles he had received from other members of the household servants, he did not think he could have borne to be present, even if it meant going without food.

Now, when he entered Nicolaa’s private chamber, he looked at her warily and was relieved when she told him that she wished to speak to him about the outcome of her conversation with the sheriff regarding an investigation into the draper’s death.

“It is my wish, and my husband agrees, that you undertake it, Gianni, working with Miles de Laxton in the same manner as you did during the enquiry for the king in Canterbury.”

Gianni could not restrain a smile as he nodded to his mistress in acceptance of her command. Investigating secret murders, although grisly, was an exercise he enjoyed. Not only did they bring the welcome challenge of pitting his intelligence against that of a criminal, so far every murder he had investigated with the Templar had resulted in justice being meted out for the victim. Please God he and Miles would do as well on this one.

He was even more delighted when the castellan told him she thought that his initial enquiries should be made at Collingham. “In the morning, I wish you and Miles to go there and question the villagers,” she instructed. “Find out all you can about Gilbert Tisser and the manner in which he died. Once that is done, we will study your findings and determine the next step to take. In the meantime, I will send a message to Robert de Vieuxpont, the sheriff of Nottingham, to inform him that enquiries relevant to a Lincoln murder are being carried out in his bailiwick.”

Gianni left the chamber with a light heart. Not only would he be engaged in a task which pleased him, by travelling to Collingham he would be away from the castle for a space and out of the sight of the Italian emissary, a most welcome prospect.

*************

The next morning the pair set out. Miles had already been apprised of the nature of the enquiry in which he was to be involved, and all the details that had been collected so far. He was happy to be on such a venture for he enjoyed a hunt as much as any of his peers and to track a human quarry instead of an animal piqued his interest. An amiable knight just past his thirtieth year, he had a cheerful nature and had formed an easy relationship with the young clerk.

“Well,” he said as they rode out to travel the fifteen miles to Collingham, “here we are again, Gianni, on the trail of another miscreant. Shall we do as before and I follow your lead, wherever it may take us?”

Gianni nodded and smiled. He had enjoyed the knight’s company during the Canterbury investigation and fully expected to do so this time. Miles, though possessed of a higher station than Gianni, was unaffected and with a sense of good humour that was infectious.

The weather was warm; fluffy clouds sped across an intense blue sky as they left Lincoln and rode down the

Fosse Way. The turn-off to Collingham was easily found and when they arrived Miles asked the boy keeping watch at the gate into the village compound to take them to the reeve, the headman of the community.

The youngster led them inside and up the dirt track that bisected the village. They passed women sitting outside dilapidated cots; some were weaving baskets from the rushes that grew on the nearby banks of the Trent River, others held a spindle in their hands which, by twisting it, produced a thread of wool. All stopped working at the sight of their visitors, watching open-mouthed as Miles—obviously a knight by his bearing and the sword at his belt—and Gianni, wearing the twelve pointed star that denoted him a servant in a noble household, followed the young gateward towards a small church that stood at the northern end.

The boy pointed at the door. “Reeve Corbin be inside with Father Steven,” he said and then beat a hasty retreat.

Miles and Gianni dismounted and went into the church. The interior was dark and gloomy, even though there were open casements on both sides. In front of the altar two men were sitting on stools; one obviously a priest by the wooden crucifix and dusty black gown he wore and the other a man of about forty years, with dark hair and a weather-beaten countenance. They were examining a pile of tally sticks and the priest was recording the information taken from them onto a piece of parchment; most likely a compilation of the tithes owed to the church by the villagers.

They both looked up at sight of their visitors and the priest, an individual of middle years with a pasty white visage, gave them a surprised greeting.

“I am Father Steven,” he said to Miles, rising to his feet. “You do us honour, lord, to come to our village.”

The knight gave him a courteous reply and then spoke to the other man. “Are you the reeve of Collingham?”

At Corbin’s nod, the knight told him that he and his companion had been sent by Lady Nicolaa de la Haye of Lincoln to ask some questions about the death of Gilbert Tisser some fifteen years before. “Were you reeve here then, Corbin?”

“’Twas my father who held the post in that time, lord, but he died some ten years ago and I now stand in his place.”

“Do you recall the time of Tisser’s drowning?” Miles asked.

“None of us will ever forget it, lord,” was the reply. “’Twas the saddest day our village has ever known.”

“How so?” Miles asked.

“Master Tisser brought us good fortune, such as we’d never had before. But now it’s all gone, just as he is.”

Father Steven interjected with an explanation of the reeve’s statement. “Gilbert Tisser first came to us when he was searching the area for a good stand of the holly oaks on which are found the insect used to make red dye. When he discovered a large quantity of them across the river in the forest, he hired a few of our villagers to collect the insects and stayed with us while they did so. While that was taking place, one of the younger women in the village caught his eye—the daughter of our weaver—and he married her and made his home here. It wasn’t long before he brought prosperity to the village. He set up his dying shed on the banks of the Trent and besides paying good coin for the collection of the insects as well as gathering some other plants such as woad for blue dye and broom for yellow, he commissioned not only his father-by-marriage to weave cloth from the wool he dyed, but also convinced another weaver to come here from Nottingham as well.

“It was not long after that he began to buy only raw fleeces instead of wool that had already been spun and carded, and hired village women to do the tasks instead. Everyone here had work aplenty, and more than enough food to fill their bellies. But, when he died, it all came to an end, and hard times have overtaken us all.”

Miles glanced at Gianni. Now the ramshackle appearance of the village and its inhabitants was explained, but it hardly seemed likely, since he had brought them extra income, that any one of the inhabitants would have wanted Tisser dead. The knight went on to ask about the dyer’s drowning.

“Lady Nicolaa has been told that Gilbert’s death might not have been accidental,” he said to both men. “Did any in the village believe the same?”

“We all did,” the reeve replied.

“Not quite all of us, Corbin,” Father Steven said repressively.

“Oh, I knows as how you and my father didn’t think so, but the rest of us did,” Corbin said bluntly.

Both Miles and Gianni felt a surge of excitement, and the knight needed no prompting from Gianni by means of writing the next question on his wax tablet. “And why was that?” he asked the reeve.

“Master Tisser could be fretful at times,” Corbin explained. “Although he was never so with any of us, he often argued with the farmers he bought fleeces from, or the merchants he sold his cloth to, and even his own brother. One of them might’ve killed him.”

“But nothing could be proved,” the priest interjected.

“Was not an investigation into his death undertaken by the sheriff of Nottingham?” Miles asked.

“”Twas never reported as a murder,” Corbin said with disgust. “My father and the priest here decided it was an accident and left it as such.”

“We didn’t think it wise,” Father Steven explained. “The village would have suffered if any of the wool farmers or merchants had been investigated for it was most likely they would take their trade elsewhere, including buying the insects that the women gathered for dye and hiring the two weavers that lived here.”

“Didn’t make much difference in the end,” Corbin said bitterly. “They soon stopped giving us work and we suffered the same fate anyway.”

Gianni scribbled on his tablet and gave it to Miles to read. “Was there anyone in particular that you and the other villagers suspected?” he asked the reeve.

As Corbin opened his mouth to reply, the priest forestalled him. “No one at all,” he said, with a stern glance at the reeve. “The dyer was alone all of the day when he fell into the river. It was an accident, nothing more.”

Corbin shrugged and went silent.

Gianni scribbled another note on his tablet and, after glancing at it, Miles asked another question.

“What about Gilbert Tisser’s family, do they still live here?”

The reeve shook his head. “His wife died afore her husband, of childbed fever after their third child was born and his children—two sons and a daughter—left not long after their father died.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“No, lord,” Corbin replied. “The eldest boy went to Nottingham when the weaver his father had brought here returned to the town, intending to hire on as an apprentice, but we never had word as to whether he did or not. The second boy, who was a few years younger then his brother, decided to earn his living as a pedlar and left. We’ve never seen him since.”

“And the daughter?” Miles asked.

“She married a carpenter from a village some twelve miles distant, but we did hear as how her husband found work in Newark and they moved there, so I don’t reckon she’s still in that village now.” Here the reeve cast a stubborn glance at the priest and added, “She and her brothers were right upset when we didn’t report her father’s death to the sheriff. I reckon as how they was glad to be gone from here.”

“You have no certainty that is true, Corbin,” the priest said in tones of castigation. “They were just naturally grieved by their father’s demise, that is all, not angry with us.”

Again Corbin shrugged and said nothing.

Gianni handed Miles his wax tablet. On it was written, “Ask the reeve to show us the place where the dyer was found dead. And ensure the priest does not accompany us.”

CHAPTER 16

Miles easily managed to leave the priest behind by the simple expedient of thanking him for his time, bidding him farewell, and then asking Corbin to take them to the place where the dyer’s body had been found. Father Stephen looked discomfited, but had no choice, in view of the knight’s status, other than to nod and watch them all walk out the door.

Gianni and Miles got back up on their horses and the reeve led them out of the village the short distance to the riverbank of the Trent. As they made their way, Gianni looked around him, remembering a time when the Templar had rescued him from a band of outlaws who had been holding him hostage a distance upstream from where they were. He shivered as he recalled the incident—the arrows flying around his head as the sheriff and his men attacked the villainous brigands and the cold shock of the water as he had jumped into the river where Bascot was waiting to catch him. It had been terrifying and his capture due to his own folly of wandering in the woods, but he would always remember how the Templar had, without hesitation, risked his own life to save him and it had cemented the close bond between them.

In front of them the river flowed quietly, with no evidence of the tidal bore that could occasionally roil its waters and make it impassable for a time. Beyond the farther bank lay the great forest called Sherwood, often used as a refuge for outlaws like those who had seized Gianni. It was thick with all manner of trees, including the live oak which was often infested with the insect used to make dye.

To the north of the village, on the near bank, a few small fields sewn with barley and oats could be seen, their stalks thrusting upwards in the sunshine. The yield would not be great, but just enough, if the harvest was successful, to keep the village from starvation through the wintertime. Along with the grains fields were a few plots of vegetables and a small orchard of apple and plum trees.

It did not take long to reach the riverbank, and the reeve pointed to a spot where the bank curved slightly inwards and was thick with growing reeds.

“’Twas right there that we found the dyer,” Corbin said. “From the way the reeds was flattened, it looked as though he’d tried to climb out of the water, but couldn’t make it.”

“Who found him?” Miles asked.

“One of the women from the village. The dyer paid her to come out here and bring food for his midday meal and that’s when she saw him. She tried to drag him up onto the bank but he was too heavy so she ran back to get help. My da came, and so did I, along with a couple of others and we pulled him out and tried to revive him, but he’d been long dead and, since a great gush of water came out of his mouth when we turned him over, we knew he’d drowned.”

At written prompting from Gianni, Miles asked another question. “Were there any marks on his body, bruising or the like?”

When Corbin shook his head, the knight asked why he and some of the other villagers believed the dyer’s death had not been accidental.

“’Cos he couldn’t swim hardly at all and was always careful about collecting water from the river to make his dyes. He would tie a rope around his waist and anchor it to that mooring peg we use for our boats to haul hisself back up on the bank in case he slipped and fell in the river while he was fillin’ his buckets,” he explained, pointing a short distance away to where two coracles, both empty, were bouncing on the tide of the river at the end of ropes tied to the stump of a tree about four feet high. The reeve gave the knight an intense look. “When we found him, there was no rope tied on him anywhere, and nary a bucket in sight.”

“And so you think he may have been pushed in?”

“’Twas the only way his falling in the river and drownin’ could be explained,” was the reply. “I tried to convince my da that was so, but he and the priest would have none of it, ‘cos they were too fearful of what might happen if we reported it. I was only a young man at the time, and they overrode my objections and that of the others who felt the same as me.”

“And who did you suspect might have had reason to kill him?”

The reeve became thoughtful. “Well, we didn’t know of any particular one for certain, but Master Gilbert had a great argument right here in the village the day before with each of two men. One was the farmer Master Gilbert bought his fleeces from, claimin’ they were stringy and thin from the sheep being sheared too soon and weren’t worth the money the farmer was asking, so he was going to pay him less. It could have been him.”

“And the other man?”

“Master Gilbert’s own brother, John Tisser. I don’t know what their argument was about for they was inside the dyer’s house and although we could hear them shoutin’ we couldn’t make out what was being said. But they had quarrelled a few days before over some cloth the dyer had ready for his brother, with Master John sayin’ it wasn’t in the colour he had asked for and Master Gilbert tellin’ his brother if he didn’t like it, there were plenty of other cloth merchants who would. The argument they had in Master Gilbert’s house the day before he died could’ve been about that again, I suppose. But all we knows is that Master John left with a face like a thunder cloud and mutterin’ as to how he’d find a way to make Master Gilbert pay for his trickery.”

“And was either of them seen on the riverbank the next day with the dyer?” Miles asked.

“No, but we wouldn’t have seen them if they had come back ‘cos we were all out workin’ in the fields, includin’ Master Gilbert’s two sons and daughter. ’Twas his habit to go out early when he was dyin’ his cloth, so he probably left about the same time we did. He did his work in a shack alongside that mooring peg’,” he added, gesturing again to the area alongside the tree stump where the coracles were tied.

Miles and Gianni made a closer scrutiny of the spot but apart from a slight depression in the earth, now overgrown with grass and weeds, there was no trace that a structure had once stood there, the materials with which it had been built most likely taken to use for repairs to the cots in the village

“And even if we hadn’t all been out in the fields, he wouldn’t have let any of us come near him. Never did when he was mixing his dyes, not even his own sons, so as to keep his concoction secret. Either his brother or the farmer could have come back while he were alone to take up their quarrel. Mebbe that’s what happened—they started arguin’ again and he fell or were pushed in while they was fightin’.”

Miles glanced at Gianni. John Gilbert was long since dead and couldn’t be interrogated and his son, Edward, who might have been told of the argument, had been murdered and was also beyond questioning.

The knight asked Corbin if he knew the name of the sheep farmer who had quarrelled with Gilbert the day before he died.

“’Twas a man named Laine, who holds the land he raises his sheep on from a noble in Nottingham, but I don’t know what the lord’s name is,” he replied.

After a gesture from Gianni that there was no need for further questions, Miles thanked the reeve for his time but, just as they were preparing to ride away, Corbin respectfully posed a question.

“I know ‘tis not my place, lord, to ask why Lady Nicolaa has sent you after all these years to ask about Master Gilbert’s death, but it has set me to wondering the reason. Might you be able to tell me?”

At a nod from Gianni, Miles explained. “Gilbert’s nephew, Edward, John Tisser’s son, has just been killed in suspicious circumstances, and she is trying to ascertain if his death and that of his uncle are connected.”

Sadness came over the reeve’s face. “Ah, ‘tis sorry I am to hear about Master Edward. He used to come here sometimes with his father, and were right friendly to all of us, not like his da, who never spoke to any in the village if he didn’t have need to.”

Gianni quickly scribbled a note on his tablet and, after glancing at it, Miles said to the reeve. “Was Edward on good terms with his uncle?”

Corbin nodded. “He were that; they got along right well and never quarrelled. I sometimes thought Gilbert liked his nephew better than his own sons, for both of them are ill-tempered, just like their da. I allus reckoned that if he was goin’ to give the secret of his dye mixin’ to anyone, it would have been Edward.”

CHAPTER 17

It did not take Gianni and Miles much time to return to Lincoln and they arrived with still an hour to spare before the midday meal would be served. When they went into the bail, Gianni quickly looked around to see if Teramo was there, but neither he nor his guards, or Enzu, were in evidence.

They rode across the ward, which was full of the usual activity as servants went about their daily tasks, to the stables and, when their horses had been given into care of a groom, Miles slapped Gianni on the shoulder in a friendly fashion.

“I think our venture today proved worthwhile, did it not?” he said.

Gianni nodded vigorously. They had received enough evidence from the reeve to make it more than possible the Gilbert Tisser had been murdered, perhaps by his own brother. Now it only remained to follow up the information they had gained to try and discover whether or not it was connected to the murder of his nephew. But first he would have to write up a report of their morning’s visit to Collingham for Lady Nicolaa and for her, or her husband, to make the decision as to whether or not to continue with the investigation.

“I am enjoying the pursuit for this killer,” Miles added before walking away from Gianni to join some of the other household knights overseeing a few squires at practice with lances, “and will hold myself ready to accompany you on the next stage.”

Gianni gave him a friendly nod and went up the steps of the forebuilding into the keep, looking once more when he was inside for sign of Teramo, but again he was thankfully absent, and as he hastened his steps towards the stairs up into the tower where the scriptorium was located, gave thanks to God for the lack of the Italian’s disturbing presence.

*************

In the Tisser household, Mary was getting ready, as Lady Nicolaa had suggested, to take Dickon to see Brother Jehan at All Saint’s Priory. The child was fretful, his nose stuffed and breathing shallow. As she and a manservant were about to leave, Adam and Bracel came into the entryway from the workshop and Adam asked where she was going.

When she told him, he dismissed the maid and took Dickon from Mary’s arms. “I will come with you,” he said. “If Edward were here, that is what he would do, so I will stand in his place.”

Surprised and grateful, Mary gave him a tremulous smile. Her brother-by-marriage had changed a great deal in the few days since Edward’s death. Whereas in the months before he had been moody and sullen, staying out drinking in an alehouse nearly every evening and sometimes not coming back until the next day, he was now sober and pleasant and had thrown himself into learning from Bracel everything he could about his dead brother’s business.

She gave a nod of assent to his offer and expressed her appreciation and, as they left, Bracel came to the door and watched them walk up

Ermine Street. He, too, was gratified by his new master’s change of attitude. He had hoped Adam would not falter in his task of replacing Edward in the household, and it would appear that his expectation had been justified.

He went into the small chamber which Edward had used as an office and was also where a quantity of cloth cuts collected by him on his trips around the country were kept on shelves—some from as far away as France—with a view to showing them at the forthcoming cloth fayre. The clerk had already gone over the accounts with Adam and also the tally of the cloth inventory, it only remained to guide him through choosing which samples would be made up into larger pieces to display at the fayre.

While Edward had been alive, and his father before him, Bracel had only played a supportive role in this chore but throughout his long service he had developed a degree of skill in determining which pieces were likely to follow any recent trend in patterns and colours. It was a very important task; the pieces had to be attractive and include a variety of styles if they were to appeal to prospective customers. When Adam returned he would guide him through the samples and help him choose which were to be made up by one of the weavers they employed. He was certain his new master, although young, would display the same acumen with this chore as he had in understanding the accounts and inventory. But first he had another task to perform, one that he was not yet ready to share with Adam.

Bracel reached down underneath the shelves on which the cloth samples were laid and pulled out a medium-sized coffer. It contained old samples that had been used over the previous years—some from as far back as the days of Edward’s father—and since these had been kept merely for reference, the coffer was hardly ever opened. Reaching under the pieces of cloth that lay on the top, he pulled out a small leather bag and extracted its contents. In his hands lay a square of red cloth that was brilliant and lustrous in colour and wrapped around a small piece of parchment covered in small, cramped writing.

It had been about a year before that he had discovered the existence of the little bag, and had done so quite by accident, having been searching for a particular sample to show a customer while Edward was absent and, not being able to find it, had thought it might have been mistakenly placed in the coffer of old samples. It had only been due to his desperate search for the piece he required—the customer was a very important one—that he had removed all of the samples in the coffer and, in doing so, had found the bag at the bottom. Curious as to what it contained, he had opened it and, when he had realised the import of the contents, had been amazed, but had taken care to replace it exactly where he had found it so that Edward should not know of his discovery.

Now he rubbed a thumb thoughtfully over the closely woven piece of cloth before placing it and the piece of parchment back in the leather bag. But this time he did not return the bag to the coffer, instead he secreted it inside his tunic. The Tisser family had always had secrets and, as their long-standing and trusted clerk, he had been privy to many of them. Some he had kept, but not all, and this one, he decided, would be one of the latter. It only remained to wait for a propitious time to divulge it.

**************

Late that evening Nicolaa de la Haye called for Gianni to attend her in her private chamber. When he came in, she told him that she had read his report on his and Miles’ visit to Collingham and agreed with the conclusions he had made at the end.

“I, like you, feel that this investigation merits a continuation. From what the reeve told you, there is ample grounds to suspect that Edward Tisser’s father killed his brother and this could be the ‘old sin’ his son is referring to. If Gilbert’s murder was over the dyer’s receipt for his mixture and, through his brother’s death, it came into John’s possession, and thus to Edward, he might have been killed to obtain possession of it. If that is so, the murderer must have had some reason to believe there would be a way to obtain it once Edward was dead.”

She paused. “But the question remains of why, if Edward had the receipt, he did not use it. It could have been due to guilt for having come by it through his father, who he must have suspected, at least, if not certainly known, had killed his uncle, or for some other reason we have yet to discover. In order to find that out, we must search further for the answer and the only way to do that is in Nottingham, by trying to locate Gilbert Tisser’s eldest son and see if he has knowledge that will help us. It might also be worthwhile to visit the sister of Edward’s dead mother, if she is still alive. As she is their aunt, it is quite possible Gilbert’s other two children may have stayed in touch with her and she will know their whereabouts. Sir Gerard and I feel it would be worthwhile for you to make a trip to Nottingham to pursue these possible witnesses and my husband has given his leave for Miles to accompany you on a trip there tomorrow.”

Gianni’s face lit up. Not only was he revelling in the task of searching out a secret murderer, but to go to Nottingham would relieve him of being in Teramo’s presence for at least a whole day, possibly two, if there proved need to stay over to locate the people to be interrogated. As he was congratulating himself on the turn of events, his mistress added further news.

“I shall also be going to Nottingham,” she said, “for I have had a report that I hope is relevant to another search, the one into whether or not your identity is that of Umberto di Marsi.”

As Gianni raised his eyebrows in question of her statement, the castellan picked up a piece of parchment that lay on her desk and held it up. “This is a note from Bishop William. He has been able to locate, among the cathedral records, the name of a priest that was sent to Italy nearly two years ago, having travelled there as a member of an entourage sent to Rome by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Whether or not this priest is the one that gave the di Marsi family the information that enabled them to discover your name is still to be determined, but Bishop William tells me that this priest, Father Timothy, is now in Nottingham, attending to the spiritual welfare of those living in the parish of St. Mary’s. I intend to go there and, on your behalf, speak to him in the hope he is able to provide further details about the di Marsi family which, if you decide to return to Italy, will be an aid in preparing you for your eventual meeting with them.”

A surge of alarm engulfed Gianni, for all of his instincts rebelled against the notion of leaving Lincoln. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the trouble his mistress was taking on his behalf and he told her so by pressing the tips of his fingers on his mouth and heart and them pointing them towards her in the gesture that conveyed his thanks.

CHAPTER 18

After a heavy shower overnight, the weather had cleared and, as the little cavalcade set out from Lincoln castle, the sky overhead contained only a few shreds of white clouds.

Miles de Laxton rode in the van of the party, with Lady Nicolaa and Clare, who had accompanied the castellan as her attendant, behind him, while Gianni brought up the rear with two other household knights. Their journey took them onto the Fosse way in the same direction that Miles and Gianni had ridden the day before, but this time the turnoff they sought was much further along than the one they had taken to Collingham, and much more travelled, for it led to Nottingham, which was over thirty miles distant from Lincoln.

As they crossed the bridge over the Trent River, the castellan glanced back at Gianni. The lad’s face appeared untroubled, but two small lines had begun to carve themselves between his eyebrows, marring his youthful countenance. Nicolaa knew they were the result of worry about the claim on his identity and that despite his attempt to appear at ease, he was inwardly troubled.

She was determined to try and prove, or disprove, the claim if she could, not only for Gianni’s sake, but for Rinaldo di Marsi, the father of the missing Umberto. She knew that if a similar circumstance had deprived her and Gerard of their only son, Richard, they would have searched throughout all of Christendom, and even the lands of the infidel, to find him, and so could empathise with Rinaldo as to the extent he had grieved throughout all of the years of Umberto’s disappearance. It was easy to imagine what a great hope must have surged when he heard it was possible his son had been found and it would be a disastrous blow for him to learn that Gianni had denied the claim without any certain evidence it was spurious. She could not inflict such cruelness on him without making her best attempt to discover the truth, and she maintained a hope that the priest in Nottingham might be able to assist her in that aim.

Thus resolved, she looked up with eager determination as they made the approach to Nottingham castle. It was impressive, built on an outcrop of sandstone some thirty feet above the Leen River, a tributary of the Trent. She and her escort were readily admitted into the bail. The sheriff of Nottingham, Robert de Vieuxpont, was a friend of Gerard’s and Nicolaa knew him well. He was much younger than Camville, just past thirty years of age, and had distinguished himself by earning the approval of King John in Normandy when he had successfully overseen improvements to military installations, including those at Rouen castle, and had, the year before, been granted the shrievalty of Nottingham and Derbyshire by the king in recognition of his efforts.

A tall man of muscular build, with a shock of tow-coloured hair, and the clear-eyed gaze of a man possessed of an untroubled conscience, he immediately came to greet her when one of the men-at-arms on the gate advised him of her arrival and personally escorted her and her entourage into the hall, ordering refreshments be brought for his visitors.

Once Nicolaa was seated on the dais alongside de Vieuxpont, and they had been served with cups of wine, he asked the purpose of her visit.

“I have two reasons for coming, Robert,” she told him. “One is connected with a murder that took place in your bailiwick, at Collingham, some fifteen years ago, which might have a bearing on a murder that recently occurred on the outskirts of Lincoln.  The other is in regard to a matter pertaining to the young clerk I have brought with me.”

De Vieuxpont listened carefully as she explained that, in the instance of the murder and how it might be linked to a more recent one in her husband’s bailiwick, she wished to try and locate the son of Gilbert Tisser—who might now be living in Nottingham and pursuing the trade of weaver—and also the sister, if she still lived, of John Tisser’s dead wife, Emmaline Thornton.

“I am hoping the sister can provide me with some details of the murder of her brother-by-marriage all those years ago,” she added in regard to the latter. “We also hope to find a sheep farmer by the name of Laine who is said to come from the Nottingham area and who had an argument with Gilbert Tisser just before his death. Since his trade would imply it not likely he lives in the town, we are hoping you can help us find him.”

The sheriff, intrigued, immediately sent for his secretarius, Clifford, and directed him to search the castle records of the inhabitants of Nottingham to see if he could locate any of the people Nicolaa wished to interview.

Pouring her another cup of watered wine, de Vieuxpont then asked about the other matter that had brought her and which she had said concerned her clerk.

After telling him Gianni’s story, which de Vieuxpont listened to with great interest, she said to him, “In this instance, Robert, I will not need any help from you to locate the person I wish to speak to, for I am aware of his name and where he is.”

Nodding his head, the sheriff gave her a grin and said, “I would imagine it is the priest you cited as being the source of revealing the whereabouts of your clerk, is it not?”

At her nod, he added, “Then I must assume he is a cleric in one of our Nottingham churches.”

“He is,” Nicolaa replied. “His name is Father Timothy and he serves as priest at St. Mary’s. With your agreement, I wish to speak with him.”

“And my agreement is readily given,” de Vieuxpont answered.

*************

A short time later, before they had even finished their wine, the secretarius, Clifford, returned with part of the information Nicolaa had asked for.

After calling Gianni and Miles forward from where they had been seated at tables below the dais in order that they could listen to what Clifford had to report, she bid him commence.

“I have not yet looked for the farmer, but believe I may have found the other two people. It is likely the weaver you are looking is a man named Martin Tisser. He has been plying his trade here in Nottingham for the last ten years, first as an apprentice, and then, two years later, as his own master. He lives with his wife and four children and also has his workshop, in a house on

Beck Lane in the northern part of town.”

At a gesture from the sheriff, he continued with the information about the sister of Edward Tisser’s mother. “I am not as certain of this information, lady,” the secretarius said to Nicolaa, “but the woman you seek may be related to Peter Vetir, a cloth merchant here in Nottingham, whose residence and shop is on

Linby Lane. On the last record-taking of the names of the townsfolk residing in Nottingham—which was done two years ago—it was stated he had a cousin living with him, an unmarried woman of advanced years, called Richilda Thornton. She is the only person with the name of Thornton now appearing on our records.”

Nicolaa thanked Clifford for his efficiency and, after he left to make a further search for the farmer, asked the sheriff if, once the midday meal was over, he could spare one of his men-at-arms to direct Gianni and Miles to both the weaver’s household and that of the cloth merchant so both of them could be interviewed.

“Of course,” de Vieuxpont replied.

CHAPTER 19

Once the midday repast had been eaten, Miles and Gianni, in the company of one of de Vieuxpont’s men-at-arms, went into the town.

“Peter Vetir’s residence is the closest, lord,” the soldier said to Miles. “Do you wish to go there first or on the way back to the castle?”

Miles looked at Gianni, and the lad quickly wrote down on his tablet the words ‘weaver first’, and they accordingly made a trip through the street to a residence on

Beck Lane, hard by the wall that surrounded the town on the north side. It was a smallish abode with wattle and daub walls and a roof of slated tiles and, as they approached the door they could hear from inside the clack of a loom.

The soldier knocked on the door and it was soon answered by a young girl of about eight years of age, whose eyes grew wide at sight of the knight and man-at-arms.

“We have come to speak to Martin Tisser,” the soldier said to her. “Is he here?”

The girl nodded dumbly and stepped aside as they all entered the house. After stepping across the threshold, they found themselves in a large room, the space almost entirely taken up by the weaver’s loom, an upright contraption a little higher than the weaver’s head. It was made of wood with each strand of the warp threads secured in one of the holes in a bar across the top and held in position by means of a stone tied at the bottom. The weaver, a thickset man with a heavy shock of brown hair was seated on a stool, plying his shuttle on an unfinished piece of cloth patterned in stripes of red and green. It was nearing completion and he was almost bent double as he weaved the final weft threads at the bottom. Nearby him was a woman clad in a gown of inexpensive blue linen, her back towards them, sorting balls of wool into a large wicker basket.

The weaver looked up as they entered. He had a face that seemed more accustomed to scowl than smile, with heavy brows and a nose that flared widely at the nostrils.

“A lord has come to see you, da,” said the girl who had opened the door in a nervous voice and, as her father hauled himself reluctantly to his feet with not a trace of deference in his manner, the child scuttled over to the woman, who placed an arm protectively around her shoulders and drew her close.

Miles addressed the weaver. “You are Martin Tisser, eldest son of Gilbert Tisser, and once lived in Collingham?”

“I am,” the weaver replied bluntly.

“I am Miles de Laxton, household knight in the service of Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln, and have come with his authority to ask you some questions concerning your father’s death,” Miles said.

“But that happened nigh on fifteen years ago,” the weaver blurted out. “Why do you come asking me about it now?”

In a voice that indicated he would not brook any further objection, Miles responded harshly. “Because it has lately been reported that he was murdered. Where were you on the day your father died?”

The weaver’s mouth fell open and his face grew ashen. “I had nothing to do with his dying,” he replied haltingly. “I was never near him that day—he allus went off to his workshop by hisself and didn’t want any of us by him until he came home again.”

“Nonetheless, where were you?” Miles insisted.

“I was out in the fields all day with the other men in the village,” the weaver replied grudgingly. “’Twas harvest time and we worked until the light went and then all of us went home to bed.”

“And your brother? Where was he?”

“Alongside of me all the day.”

“Did neither of you worry about your father when he did not return home that night?”

The weaver shrugged. “Why would we? He sometimes stayed in his workshop to sleep, so that could’ve been where he was.”

Miles did not ask about the weaver’s sister. The weaver looked to be about thirty-five years of age so, at the time his father died, would have been about twenty and, according to the Collingham reeve, his brother had been two or three years younger. As the sister was the youngest of the trio, it is not likely she would have been old enough, or had the strength, to have a hand in her father’s death.

“Did you suspect at the time that your father’s drowning might not have been an accident?” Miles asked him.

“Aye, I did so,” the weaver answered with relief that suspicion seemed to have been lifted from him. “And so did a lot of others who lived in the village. We all reckoned it might be our uncle, John Tisser, that did for him.”

“And why was that?” Miles pressed.

“’Cos they was allus arguing.”

“What about?”

“Anything they ever spoke of,” the weaver replied. “They didn’t like each other much, I reckon.”

“Did your uncle come to the village after your father’s death?”

The weaver shook his head. “The reeve sent him a message with a carter from the village that was going to Lincoln to tell him about my da, but he never sent any answer or come to his burial.”

“What about his son, Edward?”

“He turned up, but just the once. Told us all how sorry he was and then left and never come back again.”

“Do you have any more certain reason to suspect your uncle of killing your father than that they were always arguing—such as that you saw him in the village on the day your father drowned, or heard him threaten to kill his brother?”

Regretfully the weaver shook his head.

“I understand your father also had disagreements with a sheep farmer named Laine. Is it possible he might have been responsible?”

The weaver shrugged. “Could be, I suppose. Just before he died my da had a quarrel with him as well, and the farmer has a fierce temper.”

Miles changed the direction of his questions. “Do you know the whereabouts of your brother and sister?”

Again the response from the weaver was a shake of his head. “My brother Gode is a pedlar and allus movin’ about the country. If he’s near Nottingham he comes to see me, but he hasn’t been by here for over a twelve-month.”

“And your sister?”

“B’aint seen hide nor hair of her since she got married a few years back, tho’ I did hear as how she and her husband went to Newark.”

Miles gave Gianni another glance. The information from the weaver was scarcely more than they had already learned from the reeve at Collingham, and the knight wanted to know if he should move the interrogation onto the whereabouts of the receipt for Gilbert’s dyes.

At Gianni’s nod, he asked the weaver if he had it.

A look of fear crept into the weaver’s eyes as he made a vehement denial. “No, I doesn’t. My da never gave it to me afore he died and I never seed it afterwards. I don’t know where it is or what happened to it.”

CHAPTER 20

They left the weaver’s cot a short time afterwards, both frustrated by the interview. “That receipt is at the bottom of the dyer’s death,” Miles said irritably. “It must be, and I’m sure the weaver knows more about it than he is telling. That is why he was so vehement in denying any knowledge of it.”

Gianni agreed to a certain extent, but if Gilbert’s eldest son was privy to the contents of his father’s mixture, it was certain he had not used it for his own profit. His cot was humble, his clothes and that of his wife and daughter were plain and inexpensive, and the colour of the wools he was using was unremarkable. But, even if that was true, Miles observation was a valid one—why had Martin been so defensive when questioned about it?

The man-at-arms led them back in the direction of the castle and to Peter Vetir’s house on

Linby Lane. It was a substantial abode, two stories high with a fine tiled roof. Samples of cloth were laid out on a ledge inside the open casement at the front of the bottom floor with a young man standing inside to attend to customers, and there was an extension at the back of the building that was most likely used as a storehouse.

Their arrival here was met in a far different manner to their reception at the weaver’s home. The man-at-arms knock on the door was answered by a fresh-faced serving maid who, when they asked to speak to Peter Vetir, quickly led Gianni and Miles to a hall furnished with an oaken table and chairs and pewter cups on the shelves of a fine open-fronted cupboard. At the far end of the room another maidservant was overseeing three children, all young and between the ages of about eighteen months to five years old. The eldest, a boy, was prancing around with a painted stick between his legs. It was decorated at the top with a wooden horse’s head and he was making neighing sounds as he pretended to ride, actions which caused the youngest child, whose sex was difficult to determine and was sitting on the servant’s lap, to wave its arms about in merriment and gurgle with laughter. On the floor a little girl of about three was playing quietly, methodically pouring a small collection of cherry pits from one small wooden bowl to another, engaged in some mysterious game of her own devising.

The maid who had shown them into the room announced their presence to a woman seated near an unlit hearth embroidering a tapestry and who was, the maidservant told them, Peter Vetir’s wife, Anne.

The draper’s wife was an amiable woman of about twenty-five years of age, slim and comely, who immediately rose at their entrance, bid them be seated and then ordered refreshments to be brought. Once the wine arrived, she motioned for the maidservant looking after the children to take them from the room and they were promptly herded together and shepherded out of the door.

After taking the proffered cup of wine, Miles explained the nature of their visit to Mistress Vetir and asked whether the elderly woman who was living with them, Richilda Thornton, was the sister of a woman named Emmaline Thornton who had been married some years before to John Tisser, a cloth merchant of Lincoln.

“She is, and has lived with us for the past five years,” was her response, “ever since we moved to Nottingham from Newark. Richilda’s father died about that time and bequeathed his business to my husband—who is the son of a cousin of Master Thornton—on condition that we care for her. We were very grateful for his largesse and quite willing to give Richilda a home.”

“Did you and your husband have any acquaintance with Emmaline?” Miles asked.

“None at all,” was the reply. “We were told she had died some years before and except for the fact that she was married to a cloth merchant in Lincoln, know nothing else about her.”

“We would like to ask Mistress Richilda some questions about a death that occurred many years ago in the family of the man Emmaline married. May we speak with her?”

“Of course,” was the ready reply, “but I am afraid she may not be able to give you understandable answers to your enquiries, for her wits are a bit mazed with age. She misses Emmaline dreadfully, I do know that, but sometimes she speaks of her as though she was still alive, and other times cries because she is dead, and gets very confused if we try to comfort her.”

“Nonetheless, we would like to ascertain if she has any information that may be relevant to our enquiry.”

Anne Vetir nodded and rang a small bell that was on a table by her side and, when a maidservant appeared, directed her to take Miles and Gianni to the room where Richilda spent most of her time.

“She hardly ever wants to come and sit with us, or even take her meals in our company,” Anne explained, “but, as you saw, our children are young and noisy, and it may be she finds their company unsettling.”

The maidservant led Miles and Gianni up a flight of stairs to the upper story and into a roomy chamber where the elderly Richilda was seated by an open casement, staring down onto the street below. The plaits of her snow white hair were loosely covered with an old fashioned head rail of pale blue linen, and her gown, of the same colour, was neat and tidy. She did not move as they came in and the maidservant went over and touched her gently on the shoulder to tell her she had visitors, but when she turned to face Miles and Gianni, her eyes were vacant and puzzled.

“Who are these men?” she rapped out imperiously to the maidservant. “And who gave them permission to come into my chamber?”

“They are Sir Miles de Laxton, a knight in the service of Gerard Camville, the sheriff of Lincoln, and a clerk from the scriptorium of the sheriff’s wife, Lady Nicolaa de la Haye,” the servant told her softly. “They wish to ask you some questions about your sister and Mistress Anne bade them come up here, thinking you would prefer to speak to them where it is quiet.”

Richilda’s face crumpled at the explanation and tears appeared in her eyes. “You cannot harm Emma now,” she said in a querulous voice. “She is gone from this world, gone forever.”

“Even if she was not, mistress, neither Sir Gerard or Lady Nicolaa would wish her ill,” Miles assured her quietly. “We have merely been sent to ask if she told you anything about the manner of the death of her husband’s brother, Gilbert, before she herself died.”

A crafty look replaced the anxiety on the old woman’s face. “You do not wish to ask me about Emma herself?” she said.

“No, mistress; only Gilbert Tisser.”

She nodded her head, lips compressed, and her haughty manner returned. “Then I will answer. Emma would never forgive me if I betrayed her trust.”

Miles gave Gianni a bemused glance. As Anne Vetir had said, Richilda spoke of her sister as both living and dead.

“Did Emmaline ever tell you that she thought Gilbert’s death might not be an accident?” Miles asked.

Richilda turned her head and stared out of the window for a moment, and then said vacantly, “I do not remember. She might have done.”

“Can you recall whether she said anything at all about Gilbert’s relationship with his brother John?” Miles asked.

The elderly woman turned to face him, her countenance lit up. “Gilbert was a lovely man,” she said, “much nicer than John. Emma should have married him instead, but my father would not let her and insisted she wed John.”

This piece of detail took both of them aback, and Gianni scribbled a question on his tablet for the knight to ask.

“Did Gilbert ask for your sister’s hand in marriage?”

Richilda shook her head. “No, John forbade him. And he was the elder.”

For a moment, the vacant look returned to her eyes and then she said, “Emma was so pretty, much prettier than me, but I didn’t mind for I loved her. Everyone did, except John.”

“Then why did he want her for his wife?”

Richilda looked up at him as though he were an idiot. “For her dowry, of course. My father was a wealthy man and able to give her a handsome portion. Greed was the reason he wanted her for a wife, and she knew it.”

Gianni scribbled another question and Miles asked it. “Gilbert Tisser was possessed of a secret receipt for making dye that was much sought after and no one seems to know what happened to it after his death. We believe it may have been the reason he was killed. Did your sister ever mention it?”

Richilda turned up her nose. “Dyes? What would Emma know about dyes?” she asked with a return to her haughty manner. “Neither of us was involved in our father’s trade, nor would we want to be.”

CHAPTER 21

After that clear-headed statement, and no matter how diplomatically Miles tried to reintroduce the subject of Gilbert’s death and ask if Emmaline had referred to it on her last visit to Nottingham, Richilda refused to respond, instead rambling on about her father, and how he had never allowed her to be married so that she could stay at home and take care of the household.

“I had offers aplenty,” she said with the sound of long-remembered satisfaction in her voice, “even though I wasn’t as beautiful as Emma. But father said I must stay unwed and so I did. He had lovely kirtles made for me, though, and fine cloaks. There was a mantle of a deep blue lined with yellow that I loved and another of green….”

Finally Miles and Gianni gave up and left. When they returned downstairs they thanked Anne Vetir for her co-operation and returned to Nottingham castle. As they rode towards the fortress, Gianni mentally reviewed all that Edward’s Tisser’s aunt had told them. Although the flash of vacancy that often appeared in her eyes was genuine, he did not think she was as befuddled as her relatives believed. It was true that she did wander at times, but much of what she said was rational. He tried to remember all of her words, for somewhere amongst her remarks had been one that had struck him as odd, but now he could not place exactly what it had been. By the time they reached the castle, he still could not recall it and hoped it would come to him when he wrote up his report of the visit.

As they entered the keep, de Vieuxpont’s steward told them that Lady Nicolaa was in the solar and directed them to the stairs that led to an upper storey where the room was located.

When they arrived, they found the sheriff with her, and also his aunt, Sybil de Morville, a younger sister of de Vieuxpont’s mother Maud. Sybil was a woman of middle years, tall and gaunt, who had been twice married and twice widowed, but with no children from either union. When Robert had been awarded the shrievalty, she had left her considerable properties in the hands of her steward and come to Nottingham to fill the role of chatelaine for her unmarried nephew until he should wed. Clare was standing in attendance behind her mistress.

Nicolaa looked up expectantly when the knight and Gianni entered the room, and listened with interest as Miles related the details of their interviews with the weaver and Richilda Thornton.

“I am afraid we have not learned anything that will help us in the investigation into the deaths of the dyer and Edward Tisser,” he ended.

“I would not be so sure,” Nicolaa said to him. “Sometimes information needs to be studied before it is dismissed. Write up your report, Gianni, and then you and I will go over it while we wait to see if Sir Robert’s secretarius can locate the sheep farmer who is reported to have argued with the dyer.”

Gianni gave a nod and turned to leave to set about the task, but Nicolaa called him back. “I sent a message to Father Timothy earlier, asking to have speech with him, and he has replied to tell me that he will come to the castle this evening. It will be as well if you are present while I speak to him, so make yourself ready to attend me when he arrives.”

Miserably, Gianni gave another nod and went with a heavy heart to write up his report.

*************

Later that day, after the evening meal had been served, Father Timothy arrived. He was a genial priest of about fifty, rotund and smiling, and greeted the sheriff and his visitors with a warmth that was genuine. When Nicolaa told him that she had asked him to come to learn what he knew of the di Marsi family, and that Gianni was believed to be the missing son of Rinaldo, he leaned back in his chair in surprise.

“What a revelation!” he exclaimed. “I had never thought that the lad who inspired the penning of such a significant book might be Umberto. May God be praised that He chose me to be His instrument in making the lost child’s whereabouts known to his sorrowing father. Our Lord does, indeed, work His intentions in the most mysterious ways.”

Nicolaa interrupted him at this point. “Gianni is not absolutely certain, father, that he is Umberto. But whether he is or not, it would be helpful for him to have more details about Umberto’s family, and that is why we have asked you here, to see if you can give any assistance.”

As she had done with Bishop William in Lincoln, the castellan did not mention to the priest that she harboured suspicions about the count’s emissary. For now, the explanation she had given to both of them was sufficient for her immediate purpose.

The priest’s eyebrows went up in astonishment at her statement, but he answered amiably. “I will be pleased to aid the lad in any way I can,” he said, “but I do not see how I may do so.”

“Anything you might have heard about Rinaldo di Marsi and his family while you were in Italy would be most welcome,” Nicolaa told him.

The priest nodded in understanding and then, placing the tips of his fingers together, he closed his eyes in concentration for a moment. “While I was there,” he said eventually, “I never met the count—although I heard good reports of him—or Rinaldo di Marsi, but I was told the tragic tale of Umberto’s disappearance. The only members of the count’s family whose company I was in were the parents of the deaf girl to whom the book had been such a help—her father is a cousin of Count di Marsi—and the woman whom Rinaldo wed after the death of his first wife. I met them all at a feast given on the eve of the departure of my brethren and myself to return to England.”

“Do you recall the name of Rinaldo’s second wife?” Nicolaa asked, remembering how Bascot had suggested that it might be worthwhile to investigate the nature of the woman who, should Gianni decide to return to Italy, would stand in stead of a mother. She had not yet had an opportunity to ask Teramo about her, but Father Timothy might be able to give the information instead.

The priest screwed up his brow in concentration but, just as it seemed he would give a negative answer, a smile lit up his round face. “It has finally come to me. I remember that when she came over to listen to what I was saying about Gianni, and the count’s cousin introduced her as being Rinaldo’s wife, it was said that her name was Cettina Sclafani, and that she was from Sicily.”

The castellan glanced at Gianni to see if the name meant anything to him but his only response was an abrupt shake of his head.

Nicolaa spent a few more moments in conversation with Father Timothy, but he could recall nothing else that was of any assistance. He had only been in Italy a month, he said, and most of that time had been taken up with conclaves to discuss certain minor points of canon law that were under review by Pope Innocent, and except for the feast just before he and his brethren left, there had been little opportunity to meet any of the lay populace at all.

“There was a cardinal named di Marsi present at one of our discussions, but I never spoke to him,” he added. “I was, after all, a very lowly member of our group, and only included because I had made a study of canon law when I was training for priesthood and it was thought my knowledge might be helpful in advising other, more senior members, about the matters under discussion. Such a high ranking prelate as Cardinal di Marsi would have no reason for speech with the likes of me.

“But I did hear his family spoken of as being well respected,” he added, “and that the cardinal himself is highly regarded by Pope Innocent.”

CHAPTER 22

Robert de Vieuxpont invited his guests to stay the night, and Gianni was given a comfortable pallet on the floor of the scriptorium. As he lay there, listening to the deep breathing and occasional light snore from Clifford and the other clerks in nearby cubicles, he found sleep difficult, for when Father Timothy had spoken the name of Cettina Sclafani, he had suddenly recalled when and where he had seen the blue horse.

He could not remember exactly how many years that day had been before the Templar had come to Sicily, but it was during a time when he was in the company of some other urchins on one of the wharves in the port, all of them hoping to beg money or food from the sailors and passengers on the ships that were docked there. The vessel nearest to them had just arrived, and on its mast had been a banner, a red one, bearing the image of a blue horse with a flying white mane and tail. As he and the other waifs had all watched for an opportunity to beg some coins from the people leaving the ship by means of the plank that had been let down for them to disembark, a young woman of about twenty years of age had descended. She had lustrous dark hair and flashing eyes and, as she stepped her way daintily down the wooden beam to the dock, was laughing and smiling in an imperious manner at the young man on whose arm she was leaning.

Just as she set foot on the quay, the boy beside Gianni had muttered an oath. “That is Cettina Sclafani,” he said. “She is a devil that one; it is said she cut the fingers off one of her servants for daring to eat a morsel left on her mistress’ plate and that, another time, she beat one of her maids almost to death for trying on a pair of her shoes. Just think what she might do to one of us if we ask her for money.”

With that pronouncement, he had turned on his heels and run, and the other urchins, along with Gianni, had followed him. Once they were a far enough distance away, Gianni had turned to look back at the woman, wondering how someone so beautiful could be so cruel.  As he did so, he saw her exclaim in annoyance at a sailor who had accidentally got in her path, and the man escorting her, at her order, took hold of the seaman and flung him into the water alongside the dock. As the sailor called out desperately for help lest he be seriously injured, or even killed, from being squashed in the narrow space between the side of the ship and the pier, the woman turned to her escort and gave him a dazzling smile, patting his arm condescendingly as though he had performed a clever trick.

Gianni had shuddered and never forgot the incident and, as he now recalled it, Cettina Sclafani’s sensuous, but merciless, face once again floated into the eye of his mind. He was instinctively certain that this was the woman that Father Timothy had spoken of as being the new young wife of Umberto’s widowed father. If his resolve not to go back to Italy had been weakened by the apparent likenesses between himself and Umberto, it was now was strengthened beyond breaking point. Never, never, would he place himself into close proximity of such a woman, not for money or high position, or even for the sake of a father’s love.

*************

The next morning, when the company gathered in the hall of Nottingham castle to break their fast, Robert de Vieuxpont told Nicolaa that his secretarius, Clifford, had located the whereabouts of the sheep farmer named Laine.

“He has a small holding about five miles south of here, having the tenancy of it from the church,” he added. “The reason Clifford was able to find him is that the land was originally held by my predecessor as sheriff and, when he died, was left in his will to the church, so there is a record of the holding for the period when it was in his possession. It states that Laine was a good tenant, paid his fees on time and gave no cause for dissatisfaction, and since there have not been any complaints submitted to my office from the church to indicate the contrary, it can be assumed he has remained so.”

Nicolaa thanked the sheriff for the information and directed Miles and Gianni to go and interrogate the sheep farmer. “It can only be a slim hope that it will be profitable to interview him,” she said, “but there is always the chance that he is the one who was responsible for the death of Gilbert Tisser or, if he was not, that he may be able to provide the name of another possible suspect for the crime.”

Miles rose from his seat as Clifford came forward to give him directions to Laine’s farm, and Gianni followed suit, trying to gather his sleep-deprived brain into some semblance of alacrity.

The night before, his mind overtaken by thoughts of Cettina Sclafani, he had barely been able to get any sleep, for hot on the heels of his decision never to go anywhere near her, he had gone on to worry about Teramo’s response to his refusal to return to Italy. The emissary seemed bent on insisting that Gianni return to his homeland, and would most likely be furious if forced to return alone and report the failure of his mission to his patron, Count di Marsi, and Umberto’s father. To forestall that eventuality, it was quite possible the emissary would appeal to King John for aid in making Gianni leave Lincoln, and if the king decided to favour the request, might issue a command for him to comply.

Lady Nicolaa would have no choice but to make him obey the monarch’s order, even if she was loathe to do so, and nor could the Templar help him, for although the Order owed no allegiance to the king, it did to the Pope, and with one of the di Marsi family being a powerful cardinal, he could be placed under great pressure to remove any objection he might put forward to King John’s command.

All too reluctantly Gianni had come to the conclusion that if Teramo appealed to the king, and his request was sanctioned, then the only option left was for him to take the money John Blund had bequeathed him and flee Lincoln. If he could find a place where he could hide, perhaps in a remote monastery over the border in Scotland, he should be safe from discovery there either by the king or the emissary. If he could locate such a religious community, he could make a request to join them as a lay brother, a servant who took limited vows and helped with the manual work of the enclave. In such a place, his whereabouts would be kept unknown for a very long time, perhaps for the rest of his life.

His eyes had filled with tears as he developed the plan, for he knew how much he would miss the Templar and his mistress once he was gone, and also the good friends he had made in Lincoln. But, he consoled himself, he could leave a letter for Lady Nicolaa to tell her why he had gone so she and Bascot would not fear for his safety and then, perhaps, after enough time had passed for Umberto’s father to have given up the search for his son, he could send another letter to her to tell where he was and make arrangements to return to Lincoln.

The life of a lay brother did not appeal to him, but it was far better than leaving England to go to a land where he knew no one and being forced to endure the company of Cettina Sclafani.

It had not been until just before dawn that he had finalised the plan he would follow if there was need, and then, just a scant hour later, Clifford and the other clerks had risen from their beds. Now, as the Nottingham secretarius was giving Miles directions to the holding of the sheep farmer, he squared his shoulders and gave Clifford all of his attention. This murder investigation might be the last task he would perform for his mistress; he must ensure he did it to the best of his ability.

CHAPTER 23

Gianni and Miles rode out within the hour onto a road that led southwest of Nottingham. After two miles, they turned off onto the track Clifford had directed them to follow and which led, he said, to Laine’s farm. The country here was rolling grassland and contained very few trees, for the southern end of Sherwood Forest was a few miles to the north. Sheep were grazing on every side, many of them marked with the letter ‘L’ in a dry dusty powder of red earth which clung to the oil in the animal’s wool until it was washed off when they were cleansed before shearing, which was due to be done soon.

Clifford had told them Laine’s farm was not a large one, comprising only three hundred animals in all, but that the report he had read stated that the farmer was a conscientious man who cared for his sheep with the result that the wool they produced was much sought after.

Before long they caught sight of a cluster of buildings; a stone-walled cot with a thatched roof and, nearby, a wooden barn alongside a sheepfold. There were two or three smaller sheds that would most likely be used to shelter ewes having a difficult birth at lambing time. Propped up against the side of one of the sheds were a couple of staffs with a crooked end that shepherds use to guide their flocks. All of the buildings were situated close to a small stream that was a minor tributary of the Trent River.

It was at this stream that two men were working. The closest, who looked to be about fifty years of age, was guiding the sheep one at a time, all ewes, down a narrow wooden chute that led from the sheepfold into the brook, while the other much younger man was standing waist-deep in the water to grab each one and sluice the dirt and oil from its fleece. Once that was done, he pushed them up onto the far bank to find their offspring in the group of bleating lambs anxiously awaiting reunion with their dams. The process was tedious and required strength, and both men’s well muscled shoulders gave evidence of the effects of their labours, but ensuring the fleece was free of dirt before shearing was an important part of the process of producing wool, for not only did it cleanse but also made it much easier to card and spin afterwards. As Gianni and Miles approached, there were only two ewes left in the sheepfold and the work almost done.

At their arrival, the older man on the near bank looked up. He was stocky, with legs like tree stumps, broad shoulders and a grizzled frizz of hair straggling from underneath the rough leather cap he wore. His broad weathered face wore a look of surprise when he saw them, and he came forward, pulling off his cap in deference and answering Miles question as to whether or not he was Farmer Laine with a word of confirmation, spoken in the broad flat accent common to this part of the country.

“We are come with the authority of Sheriff de Vieuxpont to ask you some questions about the death of a man to whom you once sold wool, a dyer named Gilbert Tisser.”

A puzzled frown crossed the farmer’s face and he said, “But Tisser’s been dead many years, lord, and I wasn’t there when he drowned.”

“Nonetheless, we wish to speak to you about him.”

“Aye, lord,” the farmer replied resignedly.

“It has recently been charged that Gilbert Tisser was murdered and that it might have been you who killed him because of a debt he owed you,” Miles said flatly.

The farmer’s face turned the colour of one of the newly washed fleeces on his sheep. “I didn’t kill him, lord,” he expostulated. “Why would I do that? Not likely to get the money I was owed from a dead man am I?”

“Can you prove it? Where were you on the day he was killed?”

“Right here, lord. I did quarrel with him the day afore but I wasn’t about to go that long traipse back to Collingham on the next one just to renew a useless argument. When I left him on the day we spoke, he promised to pay me in a week or two and I told him he’d get no more wool from me until he honoured the debt, and left it at that.”

Miles looked at Gianni and received a confirmatory nod to accept the farmer’s statement and the knight moved on with his questioning.

“If you didn’t murder him, as you say, do you have any suspicion as to who might have done so?”

Laine’s tension didn’t relax as he glanced over his shoulder at his companion who, from the likeness between them—the same thick legs and tightly curled hair, although the young man’s was a pale yellow tangle instead of grey—was most likely his son.

“Tell them, da, what ma said you told her,” the younger man urged, “else you might get the blame for somethin’ you haven’t done.”

He hesitated only a moment before looking up at Miles. “Aye, the lad’s right. Best I tell ye.”

Running the back of his hand across his sweating brow, he said, “I reckon ‘twas Gilbert’s brother John that did for him, but I can’t prove it.”

“Why do you believe that?” Miles asked. “Was it because he wouldn’t share his dye receipt with his kinsman?”

Laine shook his head. “No, that ‘twasn’t the reason. They did argue over the receipt, ‘tis true, but I think there might o’ been a more grievous matter that lay between them.”

When the farmer paused, Miles began to lose patience with his reluctance. “Out with it, man, else I’ll take you into Nottingham for Sheriff de Vieuxpont to question.”

The threat quickly loosed Laine’s tongue. “The dyer was bedding his brother’s wife, lord,” he said in a rush, “and I reckon John found out, and that’s why he did for him.”

Miles and Gianni were both stunned at the revelation. No one at Collingham had mentioned the adultery—how could they be sure it was true?

The farmer saw the doubt on their faces and was quick to explain. “I don’t reckon anyone in the village knew about their lechery. I only found out myself by accident on a day when I was goin’ to Collingham and I saw Gilbert and a woman come out of the woods on t’other side of the Trent. T’was obvious what they’d been doin’, her clothes—fine ones they were—all crumpled and the dyer had his arm around her waist as they was walkin’ along, and so busy lovin’ up to each other they didn’t even notice me on the track to the village. I knew right away who she was ‘cos I’d seen her when she was young at the wool fairs in Nottingham with her father.”

“Did you ever tell the dyer that you had seen him with his brother’s wife? Or tell anyone else about them, especially after Gilbert was killed?”

Laine gave a vigorous shake of his head. “’T’weren’t no concern of mine and there’s no good cums from meddlin’ in families that’s feudin’ with each another. If John did kill him, he might just as like done the same to me for tellin’ what I seen. And after John hisself died a couple years later, I reckoned there was no purpose in talkin’ ‘bout it, and so I never did. Wouldn’t even say anythin’ now if you hadn’t of asked me, ‘cos I reckon the poor woman needs to be left in peace.”

“She has been long dead herself now,” Miles said, “so you have done no harm to her in telling us.”

Laine looked up in surprise, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “She’s dead?” he exclaimed and then shook his head sadly. “I didn’t know that, but I hardly ever goes to Lincoln, else I would’ve heard.”

“She didn’t die in Lincoln,” Miles informed him, “but here in Nottingham, some years ago, after being taken ill on a visit to her family.”

Confusion shone in the farmer’s eyes. “She never did! Well, ‘tis strange I was never told about her dyin’ when I was at the market in town, but since she has, I reckon she’s well out of reach of any gossip now ‘bout her beddin’ her husband’s brother.”

CHAPTER 24

Gianni and Miles left the sheep farm a short time later but before they did, the knight asked Laine if he knew the whereabouts of Gilbert’s younger son and daughter.

“We have spoken to Martin,” he said to the farmer, “but he was unable to tell us much about either of them except that his brother Gode is a pedlar.”

The farmer gave a snort. “Well, I knows nuthin’ about the daughter but I reckon that Gode is no more a pedlar than I am.”

When Miles asked Laine to explain his statement, he said that he had seen Gode a couple of months before in Nottingham near his brother’s shop and noticed that his ear had been sliced off, most likely as a punishment for stealing. “’Twas a hard windy day when I seen him, and a heavy gust blew his hood off, so as to make the wound plain as could be. Didn’t look as though it was healed up so he must have had his ear taken off not long afore. Couldn’t have been done here in Nottingham, else we would have heard about it, but ‘tis sartin it were done somewhere. And I don’t reckon he got that for chargin’ too much for any pins he was peddlin’.”

As Gianni and Miles rode down the track back to Nottingham, the knight was well pleased with the interview they had just conducted. “We got more from the sheep farmer than we did from anyone else we’ve spoken to. Now we know that it must have been John Tisser who killed his brother, and that it was most likely not for the dye receipt but because he’d been bedding his wife. And if Gilbert’s younger son has turned to thievery, it is quite possible he has become an outlaw and learned how to use a bow, so it might have been him who killed Edward Tisser, although why he would want to murder his cousin for a wrong that his father committed is yet another mystery…”

His words trailed off as he glanced at his young companion. Gianni had an expression on his face that Miles had seen before, at the time they were conducting an investigation into the murder of King John’s washerwoman, an inward concentration that meant he was following some insightful train of thought. Miles went quiet, leaving the lad to continue his pondering, which he appeared to do all the way back to Nottingham.

**************

As they rode into the keep of Nottingham castle, Gianni knew he must pursue the suspicion that had arisen in his mind during the interview with Laine. It had been the farmer telling of his surprise that he had never heard of the death of John Tisser’s wife that had finally made him realise what had struck him as an odd remark during their interview with her sister Richilda.

Instead of saying that her sister was dead, she had declared that Emmaline was ‘gone from this world, gone forever’. The phrase could be construed as ambiguous; monks and nuns, having answered a call to the religious life, were often said to have ‘left the world’ as a way of describing their physical withdrawal from common society, but not their actual death.

He tried to put himself in Emmaline Tisser’s place at the time of Gilbert’s drowning. She must have known, or at least had a strong suspicion, that her husband had murdered him, and it was possible he had even taunted her about his killing her lover because of her adultery. Her life would have been intolerable if that had happened. And then came John’s own death, a suspicious one by all accounts, for his clerk, Bracel, had said that the cause of his fatal illness was unknown, but presumed to have been due to ingestion of a noxious substance. Was it possible Emmaline had poisoned him?

If so, she must have desired, above all things, to escape the life she was then living, especially the risk that she might be suspected of her husband’s murder. Had she, just as Gianni planned to do if faced with the need to hide from the king, entered a religious institution to prevent her arrest and forestall any succeeding scandal that might devolve on the heads of her sons? As a plan it would have worked well, for any acquaintances in Nottingham who might have enquired after her, on being told by her father or sister that she was ‘gone from this world’, would have assumed she was dead and buried in Lincoln, and those in Lincoln told by Edward that she had died, that she had been interred in the family plot in Nottingham, so there would not have been cause for anyone who had an interest in her wellbeing to explore the matter further.

Such a circumstance would most certainly explain why the farmer, Laine, had wondered why he had not heard of her demise. If it had been witnessed, as it would be under normal circumstances, by a physician, then the death of a daughter of such a prominent citizen as her father would surely have been common knowledge throughout the town, which made it seem unlikely it had taken place.

And if she had entered a nunnery, then it explained why Bracel had said that Edward had returned with the news of his mother’s death in much agitation and reluctance to discuss it with anyone, which would be an understandable reaction not only to her demise, but also if he was aware that she was not dead but had entered a convent and the reason why. Was this what he meant when he said that his son had been struck so gravely ill for an ‘old sin’—one that had originated with his own father murdering his brother for his mother’s adultery with him, and had ultimately resulted in her killing her husband?

There was only one way to discover if what he surmised was true, and that was to ask Sir Robert’s secretarius, Clifford, to search the town archives for a record of Emmaline’s death. All births, deaths and marriages in Nottingham town would be recorded as a matter of course and, if her name was not among the list of the deceased, it would be a strong indication she might still be alive.

If she was, then every attempt must be made to find her. She was the only one left who had intimate information relating to these old crimes and if there was any person connected to them who would, even after all of these years, have reason to kill her son.

CHAPTER 25

Back in Lincoln, in the Templar preceptory, Bascot had that morning received two communications. One was from Brother Berard, the master of the Templar commandery in London, in answer to Bascot’s enquiry about the di Marsi family. It did no more than confirm what was already known; that the count was well regarded by his peers and the pope and was, as far was known to the Order, a man of integrity. There was however, some additional information with regard to Bascot’s query as to whether or not King John had any reason to be supportive of di Marsi. Berard wrote that this might be due to a letter that Pope Innocent III had previously sent to the king reprimanding him for his treatment of the clergy in England, specifically that John was using his influence to delay or postpone the election of bishops so that he could collect church revenue while the post was vacant. Berard felt that the king might, by showing willingness to assist a family that included a powerful cardinal, be making an attempt to appease the pope. Bascot thought this might very well be true, and would explain John’s support of the embassy.

The second letter that arrived was from Nicolaa de la Haye, sent from Nottingham early that morning to advise him of the outcome of her interview with Father Timothy.  The priest had more or less confirmed what Teramo had told them of the way that Gianni’s identity had been discovered through the book written by John Blund and Lambert, she wrote, and the only additional information that he had provided had been the name of Rinaldo di Marsi’s second wife, and that it was Cettina Sclafani.

Would it be possible, she had added, for him to go once again to Temple Bruer and ask if de Rennes, the preceptor there whom Bascot had told her had spent some time in Sicily some twenty-odd years before, if he could shed some light on the repute of  Cettina’s family?

Bascot showed the letter to MacHeth, who read it with great interest, and immediately gave his consent for de Marins to make another visit to Temple Bruer.

*************

In Lincoln town, the Tisser family was still trying to come to terms with the loss of Edward. The murdered man had been interred the day before in the cemetery of their parish church. The funeral had been attended by many of those in the cloth trade in the town, not only drapers, but also weavers and dyers. He had been well liked, which brought his wife, Mary, a little comfort and the numerous offers of help from many of those who had come to support her, should she need it, was heart-warming.

The only spark of hope that brightened her sadness was the fact that the medication Brother Jehan had suggested for her little son, Dickon, was proving beneficial. When the monk had handed her a little jar containing the mixture, he had told her it was a balsam made from the resins of plants and shrubs, and she was to place a few particles of it in an iron pan filled with water on a brazier by her son’s bedside, and keep it gently steaming throughout the night while he slept.

“It will not cure your child’s condition,” Jehan had warned her, “but the fumes often help the breathing of those who share his affliction. Ensure that you or a servant watches the pot all through the night so it does not boil dry. If it proves efficacious, and you need more, come back and I will give you a further supply.”

That night, for the first time in many months, Dickon slept peacefully, with Mary sitting by his cot and offering her heartfelt thanks to heaven for the remedy. How she wished they had been advised to consult the monk before Edward had left on his pilgrimage; it would have eased his conscience for the unknown sin he had spoken of and, in turn, also his soul.

In the workshop, Bracel was greatly pleased at the determination Adam was showing to successfully continue his brother’s trade. The young man had listened carefully to all the clerk had told him of the materials that were in stock, which ones had proved popular and those that needed his authorisation to make up into samples, and had asked intelligent questions about how their display should be arranged on the stall at the forthcoming fayre.  The clerk was favourably impressed with his eagerness, and pleased that he had judged rightly in his estimation of the young man’s potential.

*************

In the bail of Lincoln castle, the Italian emissary, Teramo, was not in such a benign state of mind. Gianni’s absence with Nicolaa de la Haye on their journey to Nottingham was eating at his patience and his temper. The castellan had sent a servant to inform him they would be gone only one day, but they had not returned yet, and he had been told that a message had been received from her that morning to say they would not be back in Lincoln before the morrow.

His impatience had been exacerbated by an incident the evening before concerning the two routiers he had hired to act as escort on his journey.  They had grown restless with the enforced inactivity—and even more with the distant attitude of the servants inside the castle—and one of them had attempted to fondle a maidservant in the hall just after the evening meal. Fortunately, Teramo had noticed the mercenary’s amorous intention just as it started to happen and had been able to forestall the girl from making a scene by apologising to her and giving a stern reprimand to the guard. But the steward, Eudo, had also been watching and, after the Italian man-at-arms had slunk from the hall, he had approached Teramo and told him that although he would not report the effrontery to Sir Gerard this time, he would have no choice but to do so if it happened again.

Damned priggish English, Teramo thought. In Italy the girl would have taken the guard’s attentions as a compliment; here it was seen as an attack on her respectability. In order to soothe the soldier’s understandable resentment for his reprimand, he had taken him and the other guard into town and paid for them to spend the night in a bawdy house, while he had repaired to a more refined bordello and relieved his choler in the company of a very comely harlot. The entertainment had done both he and his men a great deal of good, especially as he had met, while making enquiries as to the location of whorehouses in the town, someone who, for a fee, could be very useful in achieving his goal of taking Gianni back to Italy.

CHAPTER 26

When Miles and Gianni returned to Nottingham castle, the knight told Nicolaa de la Haye and Sheriff de Vieuxpont the result of their interview with the sheep farmer, including the information about Gode Tisser having his ear cut off.  Gianni then went on to explain, by means of gestures and writings on his wax tablet, that he would like to discover whether or not the death of John Tisser’s wife had been recorded, and why he would like to do so.

“I will ask Clifford to research whether or not there is a notation of Gode Tisser’s injury being inflicted as punishment for a crime,” de Vieuxpont said, “and also if there is a record of Emmaline Tisser’s demise.”

“If what you suspect is true about Emmaline,” Nicolaa added, “we will need to interview her sister again. And the same with Martin Tisser; if Laine saw Gode near his house a couple of months ago, then the weaver lied about the last time he saw his brother, and I want to know why.”

*************

By the time the midday meal was over, Clifford had completed the task given him. There was no record of Emmaline’s death, either during the year she was purported to have died, or the one before and after. Neither had there been an entry regarding the charge of a crime against Gode Tisser.

De Vieuxpont immediately despatched four of his men-at-arms, one pair to bring Martin Tisser to the castle, and the other to fetch Richilda Thornton.

“If the weaver should prove recalcitrant, you may use whatever force is necessary to bring him here,” he told them, “but if the woman shows the same reluctance, treat her gently. She is reputedly not possessed of all her wits, so you may need to appeal to one of the relatives she lives with to ensure her compliance. If that also fails, then report back here and we will find another way to question her.”

While they waited for the two witnesses to arrive, de Vieuxpont ordered more wine brought, and sat on the dais with Nicolaa and his aunt, Sybil de Morville, and asked how the castellan wished the forthcoming interrogations to be conducted.

Nicolaa gave it some thought before she answered. “As far as Mistress Thornton is concerned, I think it would be wise to question her in the solar with only a few people in attendance, so as to make her as much at ease as possible. She has already met Miles and Gianni, so their presence should not cause her any distress, but it may be that if you are there, Robert, the sight of your authority might overwhelm her, so perhaps Sybil, if she is willing, can attend as your representative.”

The sheriff and his aunt readily agreed to her suggestion, and Nicolaa then added that in respect of the weaver, she believed that the opposite reaction to the sheriff’s presence would occur and would, conversely, be of assistance during his interrogation. “Unlike Mistress Thornton, it would appear Martin Tisser needs to be intimidated so I would appreciate it if you would oversee an interview conducted by Miles and Gianni, preferably in a holding cell. And perhaps, Robert,” she added with a glint in her eye, “if you had a couple of your men standing by with a set of manacles it might help to convince the weaver that he has no option but to tell the truth this time.”

De Vieuxpont laughed. “It will be my pleasure,” he said.

It was not long before the pair of soldiers assigned to bring in the weaver returned, reporting that he had offered only a token resistance to obeying de Vieuxpont’s order, which had soon been overcome, and was now incarcerated in a holding cell in the bail. Richilda Thornton would be here shortly, they added, for they had passed their comrades bringing her slowly along

Linby Lane in the company of her relative, Peter Vetir.

Leaving the weaver to fret in his cell, Nicolaa and Lady Sybil repaired to the solar with Miles and Gianni. Clare was summoned and stood behind her mistress’ chair, awaiting any instructions Nicolaa should give.

When Richilda entered the chamber, she was leaning heavily on the arm of the Nottingham draper. Peter Vetir was a tall man, about thirty years of age with a shock of dark hair and deeply set dark eyes that were filled with apprehension. Looking around her in a confused fashion, her eyes flicking over Miles and Gianni without a sign of recognition, Richilda turned to her cousin and said, “Who are these people, Peter? And why have you brought me here?”

The cloth merchant spoke his answer softly. “Do not be alarmed, Richilda; you are not in any trouble, but are simply come to answer some questions about your sister.”

“But why?” she demanded with asperity. “Emmaline is gone from this world, what more is there to know?”

“She may be gone, but she is not dead, is she, mistress?” Nicolaa said quietly.

Richilda’s eyes swivelled to where the castellan sat but she made no reply to the charge.

“Is that not the truth, mistress?” Nicolaa pressed. “Emmaline was never taken ill, and nor did she die.”

The elderly woman’s reaction was a great sobbing intake of breath, and her limbs began to tremble. Seeing she was at the point of collapse, Nicolaa quickly motioned for Clare to help her onto a stool and give her a measure of wine. Once seated and given a sip from the cup, Richilda’s confusion began to clear.

Finally she spoke. “I had no part in arranging her disappearance,” she said sadly. “My father took care of that, but it was Emmaline’s own wish that he did so.”

“And where is she is now? In a nunnery?”

Richilda nodded. “She is at Wallingwells Priory and is an anchorite there.”

Wallingwells Priory was not far away, being about five miles north of Nottingham, and near the town of Worksop. But that she had become an anchorite—walled away from the rest of the community in her own solitary cell where she could pray and meditate all alone throughout the long days and nights of her never ending confinement—was surprising.

“Why did she seek such enforced seclusion?” Nicolaa asked.

“She wished to atone for her sins,” Richilda answered with a sob. “They were too great, she said, for her to remain in society, or even among the sisters in the priory.”

Nicolaa leaned back in her chair and glanced at Sybil, who gave a grimace of astonishment. It was not strictly necessary for a female to join a religious order to become an anchorite but only to have fervent desire—mostly through a wish to spend her days in divine contemplation—to escape forever from the world.

“And do you know the nature of the sins she committed?”

Richilda nodded. “But her son, Edward, knows much more that I,” she said. “My sister wrote him a letter explaining it all which my father gave to him after Emmaline entered the priory. Why do you not ask him?”

Nicolaa looked toward Miles and Gianni, and they both gave a slight shake of their heads. They had not told Richilda of her nephew’s death on the day they interviewed her.

The castellan returned her glance to the elderly woman, and saw that Peter Vetir was looking grim as he leaned towards his cousin and said softly. “Edward is dead, Richilda. He was murdered by outlaws a few days ago. I only heard of it yesterday from a customer who had just returned from a trip to Lincoln, but I did not have a chance to tell you before the sheriff’s soldiers came…”

At this news, Emmaline swayed on her stool, and her face grew ashen. Clare quickly stepped forward again and, with the help of Vetir on the other side, helped her remain upright.

“Oh, sweet Lord,” Richilda moaned, wringing her hands. “My poor Emmaline. How she will grieve if she learns of his death. Her transgressions, they were too great for God to forgive, and now, because she is walled up, her son has been chosen to pay the penance instead.”

“Mistress Thornton,” Nicolaa said slowly and quietly, “you keep speaking of your sister’s sins in the plural. We know she committed adultery with her husband’s brother, Gilbert, after which, it would appear, John killed him. But what else had Emmaline done?”

Richilda lifted her head and raised her gaze towards the ceiling, as though seeking guidance from above, but the look in her eyes had again become addled and it took a few moments before, with a great sigh, she recovered her wits enough to answer the castellan’s question.

“She gave John poison and murdered him,” she said softly, her voice tremulous with anguish.

“Why?” Nicolaa pressed, not surprised at the statement, but wishing to confirm Emmaline’s motive. “Was it in revenge for Gilbert’s death? Or had John made a threat to despatch her as well?”

“No,” Richilda replied. “It was not her life that was in danger, but that of her son. She could not allow John to carry out his intention.”

“I do not understand,” Nicolaa said in puzzlement. “Why would her husband wish to kill Edward?”

“It was not Edward he said he would kill,” Richilda replied. “It was Adam.”

Nicolaa suddenly knew the full nature of the ‘old sin’ Edward Tisser had spoken of and, glancing across at Gianni, saw that he did as well. Forcing herself to corroborate her suspicions, she asked the woman slumped on the stool in front of her why John Tisser would threaten to murder his younger son.

“Because Adam isn’t John’s son,” Richilda replied. “He is Gilbert’s.”

CHAPTER 27

After her startling statement, not much more information could be gleaned from Richilda. When asked if she had seen Edward since that long ago day when he had come to Nottingham and was informed his mother had become an anchorite, Richilda had just shaken her head with a blank look in her eyes. The question of whether or not Edward had told his younger brother of his bastardy received the same response and then she began to wander in her speech, much as she had done on the day that Gianni and Miles had interviewed her, speaking of how beautiful her sister had been when she was young and of the lovely gowns their father had given them.

Vetir was unable to help them either. “I knew of Edward, of course, through the cloth trade in which I am involved, but have only seen him once or twice at cloth fayres, and never spoken to him.”

He had then shaken his head in sorrow. “I did wonder why Master Thornton made me his heir instead of Edward, who was far more closely related to him, and assumed it was because of some rift in the family, and now, unfortunately, I have been proved right. I would rather it were otherwise, but I can understand how distressing it would have been for Richilda to be under her nephew’s protection knowing the terrible secret they shared, and that her father wished to spare her that agony, and Edward also, by leaving his estate to me.”

“Then you were aware of none of these happenings?” Nicolaa asked, watching him carefully as she waited for his response.

“Not a whit,” he assured her with seeming sincerity. “I was told Emmaline had died and had no reason to doubt that she had, for I and my family did not live in Nottingham at the time of her supposed demise.”

He paused for a moment and then added, “I believe the prioress at Wallingwells is a member of the Thornton family, a cousin of Master Thornton’s perhaps, just as my father is, for I remember it being said by one of our relations—I can’t remember who—that there was a nun of high rank in our family. That would explain why Emmaline chose to go there, and was so readily allowed to become an anchorite.”

*************

After the cloth merchant had led the confused Richilda from the solar, guiding her gently and telling her that he was going to take her home, Nicolaa discussed what she had told them with Gianni and Miles, Sybil listening with close attention.

“This new information is enlightening,” Nicolaa said, “and most certainly explains Edward Tisser’s statement of having to do penance for an ‘old sin’. But, even though we can now be certain of the reason for Gilbert’s death and the circumstances surrounding it, his murder is not the one we are investigating, but that of Edward who, of all those involved this tragedy, seems not to be guilty of any part of it.”

She rose from her seat and walked over to one of the casements set in the wall of the solar and looked down on the bail below before starting to pace back and forth, an action Gianni knew that she did when she was thinking intensely and needed movement to focus her mind.

“We must now examine what motives, if any, could have arisen from these old crimes to prompt a desire for Edward’s death so many years later. And to do that we must try and discover if anyone, besides Emmaline’s father, sister and her eldest son, knew that she had killed her husband and given birth to her lover’s bastard. The first to consider is Adam—did he recently discover that he is not the son of the man he had, from his birth, been led to believe was his sire? And, if not, did he, in some way, perhaps accidentally, unearth the secret and kill Edward for keeping it from him?

“Then there are Gilbert Tisser’s children by his legally wed wife. Were they aware of this situation and, if so, did they know if it at the time it happened or not until lately? If it is the latter, did one, or more of Gilbert’s children in conspiracy together, murder Edward out of a desire for vengeance for his mother being indirectly responsible for the death of their father?”

The castellan paused for a moment and Gianni scribbled some words on his wax tablet and handed it to her. She nodded. “Yes, you are correct, Gianni. It is entirely possible that Gilbert entrusted his dye receipt to Emmaline. If so, was the receipt included in the letter she gave to Edward? Did he, in turn, keep it privily for all of these years and then, perhaps in a fit of remorse for his knowledge of this ‘old sin’, convey the fact that it was in his possession to one of Gilbert’s children, or even Adam? Again, did this knowledge play some part in the motive for his death?

“It would be wise not to overlook Peter Vetir as far as the dye receipt is concerned,” Sybil added astutely. “It would be very valuable to anyone in the cloth trade, and so he would have a great interest in possessing it. Although he says he is aware of none of these old happenings, he appears to be an intelligent man and it is quite possible that if Emmaline did pass on the receipt to her eldest son and Richilda knew of it that she might, in her ramblings, have given Vetir some hint that Edward had it.”

“A very pertinent observation, Sybil,” Nicolaa said. “While I do not think he would have committed Edward’s murder himself, it could be possible he may have hired someone to do so in the hope of obtaining the receipt after Edward was dead.”

Nicolaa came and sat back down, tapping her fingers impatiently on her knee after she had done so. “There is still much to be resolved,” she said finally, “and the most obvious place to continue with the investigation is, I think, with Martin Tisser, who has shown by his lie about his brother that he might have more knowledge of this matter than he has so far revealed.”

*************

In the company of Robert de Vieuxpont—who had been apprised of all that had passed during the interview of Richilda Thornton—and two men-at-arms, one of whom was carrying a pair of iron shackles, Gianni and Miles went to the cell where the weaver was incarcerated. When they entered, he cringed back into a corner and regarded them with apprehension.

At a gesture from the sheriff, the soldier with the shackles walked over and manacled Martin’s wrists together. The weaver made no effort to resist, merely cowered back in terror as he was immobilized.

When that was done, the plan that had been decided upon was put into action. With a nod from de Vieuxpont, Miles addressed the weaver.

“By the authority of Sir Gerard Camville, sheriff of Lincoln, and with the sanction of Sir Robert de Vieuxpont, sheriff of Nottingham, I am arresting you, Martin Tisser, for conspiring with your brother Gode to murder Edward Tisser, a citizen of Lincoln town. You will be taken from here and tried for the crime at the court of Sir Gerard in Lincoln.”

Even before Miles had finished speaking, the weaver reacted as they had hoped. Falling to his knees, he protested his innocence. “I had no hand in that murder, I swear before God,” he cried. “’Twas my brother did the deed, not me.”

“But you knew of his intention to kill Edward, didn’t you?” Miles pressed.

“I did, I admit, but I told him he was a fool and had no more to do with it. In Blessed Jesus’ name, I tell you it is so.”

“Why did your brother kill your cousin?”

“For money,” the weaver said. “He told me he met someone who said he would pay a goodly quantity of silver for the killing, more than enough to make it worthwhile.”

“And who is this paymaster?”

Martin sobbed his answer. “I don’t know, lord, I promise you. All Gode said was that it was someone he met out in the greenwood. He did not tell me who it was or why this person wanted Edward dead, and I did not ask him for I did not want to know any more of the plan.”

“A ready evasion for you to make, weaver, if you were party to the scheme,” Miles growled. “You lied about not seeing your brother for many months, when we have a witness who saw Gode outside your cot in Nottingham recently. How do I know you are being truthful now?”

The weaver looked up, tears running down his face. “If you want proof, I can tell you how to catch my brother, lord.”

“Do so then,” Miles replied, “and, if he is arrested, I will tell Sheriff Camville of your co-operation.”

Martin hung his head in shame for his betrayal as he spoke. “Gode told me that the man who hired him gave him only part of the money for killing Edward before the deed was done, and promised that once it was carried out he would be given the rest one week later.”

Miles glanced at the sheriff and Gianni; Tisser had been killed six days ago. “Where is Gode to collect it?” Miles asked roughly.

“At Collingham, lord,” Martin replied bleakly, “at midday by the place where my da had his workshop.”

CHAPTER 28

A short time later de Vieuxpont, Miles and Gianni had returned to the solar and related to Lady Nicolaa what they had learned of the plan to kill Edward Tisser; and that Martin also told them that Gode had been living with other outlaws in the forest for some time and had gained enough skill with a bow to use arrowshot to murder the draper. In addition, the weaver declared that his brother, from his roving in the greenwood as a brigand, was very familiar with the stretch of woods alongside

Ermine Street where he intended to wait for Tisser to pass by.

“He also said,” Miles added, “that his brother had his ear sliced off for stealing in a village up north, near York, which is why there is not a record of it here in Nottingham.”

“Did he explain how Gode came to know that Edward would be travelling on the road south of Lincoln on the day he was killed?” Nicolaa asked.

“The draper’s leaving on pilgrimage was, apparently, a coincidence, for I asked the very same question of Martin,” Miles replied. “It seems that whoever hired the pedlar promised to inform him when Edward would be travelling to appointments in that direction, and so along that stretch of road, to carry out business associated with his trade which, it would seem, he did often. He must have planned such a trip for that day and it was only a co-incidence that he decided to go on pilgrimage instead, but his journey still took him past the place where Gode was waiting.”

Nicolaa nodded. This was in accordance with the information that Mary Tisser had given that her husband was to visit a weaver in Coleby on the day of his murder, a village just south of where he met his death.

“I also asked the weaver if he knew that his father was bedding his uncle’s wife,” Miles added, “and he didn’t seem surprised, saying he had often heard his mother ranting at her husband, telling him she would never have wed him if she had known he was in love with his sister-by-marriage.”

“Did you tell him that Adam Tisser is his father’s son, and not his uncle’s?” Nicolaa asked.

“I did,” Miles confirmed. “And that did astonish him but, after he had thought about it for a moment or two, he seemed to find it humorous, saying that his father had taken his revenge on his brother for killing him by leaving him to raise his love child like a cuckoo in his nest.”

Nicolaa was pleased with the outcome of the interview and Sybil and Clare gave smiles of satisfaction. “Even though we are not yet aware of the identity of Gode’s conspirator,” the castellan declared, “we will be able to discover who he is when he and the outlaw meet in Collingham. But in order to do so we must act quickly—there is not much time to devise a plan to apprehend them.”

She turned to de Vieuxpont. “The village is in your bailiwick, Robert, but Edward’s murder took place in Lincoln. Are you willing to liaise with my husband in the capture?”

“Of course,” the sheriff replied.  “Let us determine a strategy now and, if we apprise Gerard of it today and gain his approval, we can put it into action.” He then addressed Miles. “I have not had a chance to inspect Collingham village since I took up my post here in Nottingham, but you and Gianni were there recently. How does the land lie for constructing an ambush?”

The knight gave some consideration to the question before he spoke. “I would expect that Gode must be living with other wolf’s heads in Sherwood forest, so he will most likely come from that direction, probably crossing the Trent in a small boat from the western bank to where the meeting is to take place. But with regard to his cohort who is, presumably, not an outlaw, it is probable he will approach from the road on the eastern side. The village is a little more than a mile away from the spot where they are to come together, and the ground in between is clear of trees, so a watch for both culprits could be made from the top of the palisade that encompasses the village. If myself and two or three men-at-arms go to Collingham tonight and stay in one of the cots—some of which are empty—we will be in a good position to oversee the area by first light tomorrow.”

“Will the villagers co-operate, do you think?” de Vieuxpont asked. “The plan could be foiled if any are inclined to give either Gode or his paymaster warning.”

“The reeve there, a man named Corbin, will be pleased to help us, I think. I am fairly certain that he had no hand in either Gilbert’s murder all those years ago, or in the recent one of Edward. In fact, he seemed most anxious to give us aid in finding out who had killed both.”

Miles looked at Gianni for confirmation of his opinion and the lad gave an assertive nod.

The sheriff agreed with Miles’ suggestion but made one addition. “I will have a couple of my archers, in peasants’ garb, secrete themselves in the greenwood of Sherwood on the western bank in case Gode manages to get back across the river before he is taken. And another pair further up the eastern bank for the same purpose.”

Nicolaa said she was certain her husband would be satisfied with the plan and that she would return immediately to Lincoln that afternoon and apprise Gerard of the scheme. If he had any objections, she would send a man-at-arms back to de Vieuxpont with a message outlining the details; if not, then the sheriff could proceed with sending out his archers in the morning.

*************

As the castellan and her escort were on their way back to Lincoln, Bascot de Marins was in the Templar preceptory at Temple Bruer, seeking to learn if Brother Morgan, or perhaps Geoffrey de Rennes, had any knowledge of the reputation of Rinaldo di Mari’s second wife, Cettina Sclafani, or her family.

As before, de Rennes welcomed him and they were soon again ensconced with the Welsh brother in the refectory which, as it was mid-morning, was empty.

After Bascot explained about his letter from Lady Nicolaa and her discovery of the name of the Sicilian woman Umberto’s father had married after being left a widower, he asked if either of his companions had heard of her or her kin.

“The name seems familiar to me,” Brother Morgan replied, “but that is all. I must have heard it at some time, but cannot now recall the context.”

Preceptor de Rennes leaned across the table towards him. “It may be that you will remember when I tell you of a heinous act perpetrated by the younger brother of Federico Sclafani, who was head of the family at the time I was in Italy thirty years ago. I am sure you must have heard it discussed, for it was a notorious event and one that would not soon be forgotten.”

He turned to Bascot. “The name of the younger brother was Guido and he was very envious of his older sibling’s position and wealth, continually importuning Federico for monies and power which Federico, recognising Guido’s desire to oust him, always refused. Matters came to a head between them one day when Guido made an attempt on his brother’s life. The attack failed, but was still not without dire consequences, for as Guido fled his brother’s wrath, he managed to seize Federico’s wife and young son and take them with him to a secure fortification in the mountains. Federico immediately raised a strong force and laid siege to the citadel, but Guido sent him a message that, if he did not desist, he would kill both his hostages.

“Federico, of course, could not take the chance that his brother might carry out his threat and offered terms for submission, including a pardon for Guido if he would leave Sicily and go into exile. Guido accepted but, once he was safely away from his brother’s clutches, and Federico went into the stronghold, he found that his brother had cruelly mutilated both his wife and son before leaving, the torture including having their eyes put out.

“Neither the wife or son survived, the wife expiring almost immediately but the child lingering for days in terrible pain and misery before he finally succumbed. Federico sent agents to try and find his brother so he could put him to death, but was not successful. Federico lived out his days, which were quite long, never ceasing to curse Guido for his perfidy.”

“Now I remember,” Brother Morgan replied. “I was told the tale when I first went to Italy, but had forgotten the name. It is a gruesome story.”

“Yes, it is,” Bascot replied. “And I do not relish Gianni being in close company of a member of a family tainted with such evil blood.”

CHAPTER 29

It was late in the day when Nicolaa and her escort arrived back in Lincoln. Before they left Nottingham, the castellan had asked Gianni if, now he had taken ample time to reflect, he was able to make a decision as to whether or not to accompany Teramo to Italy. He had given her a definite answer, and that was he did not wish to go. His resolution seemed firm and she made no further attempt to dissuade him.

When they entered the keep, the evening meal was over and upon Nicolaa enquiring of the steward, Eudo, where her husband was to be found, she was told that he had gone to the kennels to inspect a bitch dog that had just whelped. Nicolaa instructed the steward to go to Gerard and tell him that she wished to speak to him urgently and, after he had done that, to have some food for herself, Miles, Gianni and Clare brought to the solar, and also to provide sustenance for the other two household knights that had formed part of her escort to Nottingham. She then made her way across the hall, Miles, Gianni and Clare following, and they all mounted the steps to the solar.

As they crossed the hall, bypassing the servants dismantling the trestle tables that had been erected for the recent meal, Gianni took a good look around him and noted that, thankfully, Teramo was nowhere in sight.

Gerard Camville soon joined his wife in the solar and she told him what had passed in Nottingham. He was greatly pleased to learn that, in all probability, the culprits guilty of murdering Edward Tisser would soon be apprehended and readily agreed to the plan de Vieuxpont and Miles had made to seize them.

“Have you any suspicion as to the identity of the outlaw’s paymaster?” he asked Nicolaa.

“I have many, and none,” she answered in frustration. “It all depends on the motive which, at the moment, is unclear. Since the Tisser family seems to have a very strong inclination for taking revenge on each other, it could be a relative, perhaps Adam, Edward’s younger brother, or this daughter of Gilbert’s that we have been unable to locate. Or even the draper’s wife, Mary, for some undiscovered reason. But if greed is at the bottom of it and the dye receipt is as valuable as has been said, it could be Peter Vetir, the Nottingham draper I mentioned, who might have devised a scheme for taking possession of it once Edward was dead.” She shrugged. “We will just have to wait and see who comes to meet the outlaw in Collingham to learn his, or her, identity.”

*************

Gerard Camville and Miles left to arrange which men would accompany the knight to Collingham and Gianni went to write up a comprehensive report of all the information that had been gathered.

While Nicolaa and Clare remained in the solar, engaged in further discussion of the motive for Edward Tisser’s murder, and the possible suspects, Teramo, from the shelter of the entrance to the old keep where he and his men had been given quarters, watched the activity taking place in the bail. He saw the sheriff and Miles descend the steps of the forebuilding into the ward and then stand together for a few moments in deep conversation, before horses were brought from the stables and three men-at-arms summoned from the garrison. After a final order from Camville, which Teramo could not hear, the knight and the soldiers got into their saddles and rode out of the castle precincts.

The Italian could not guess the purpose of the scene he had just witnessed, nor did he care much, except to form the opinion that it must be of great import to set the sheriff and his men astir so late in the evening. He clenched his jaw in frustration at the realisation that whatever the cause of this activity, it meant that now would not be a timely moment to set his plan in motion. It was imperative that Camville and his wife, and more importantly, Gianni, had all returned to their normal routine for his scheme to be viable. He shrugged his shoulders in unwilling acceptance of the need to bide his time and went back inside the old keep to the chambers he had been allotted. While he waited for circumstances to become favourable, he would console himself with the contents of a keg of very good wine he had obtained in Lincoln town the day before.

CHAPTER 30

The next morning dawned bright and clear and found Miles and the men-at-arms comfortably situated in one of the cots in Collingham village. Corbin, the reeve, when approached late the night before, had been more than willing to help in the apprehension of Edward Tisser’s murderers. Even the priest had been accommodating, seemingly overawed when he learned that sanction for their venture had been given by both the sheriffs of Nottingham and of Lincoln. There wasn’t any way to prevent the villagers from being aware that the knight and his men were in the cot, but Corbin spoke to all of them, warning that if they met anyone from outside the village during their work hours the next morning, they were not to mention the presence of the armed men, nor were they to go near the riverbank the next day. Disobedience of either of these strictures would be punished by the levy of a hefty fine.

Considering the cramped quarters they were sharing, Miles and the soldiers spent a reasonably comfortable night, catching a few hours sleep after partaking of the food and ale they had brought with them. Before first light, Miles sent two of the men-at-arms to hide in the greenwood in a spot where they could overlook the most direct path to the place where Gode’s accomplice was to meet him, a dusty track that started at the main road and wended its way by the riverbank and alongside the place where Gilbert Tisser’s old workshop had stood and the same one from which Farmer Laine had, all those years ago, observed Gilbert and his brother’s wife, Emmaline, engaged in romantic dalliance. This was the most likely route of Gode’s paymaster, for the only other path led through the village and Miles thought it unlikely the man they were waiting for would take the unnecessary chance of being seen by any of the villagers. The men-at-arms he sent to watch this path would be in place long before the time of his arranged meeting with Gode at midday.

Instead of keeping watch from the palisade, Miles decided that he and the other man-at-arms would take up their positions inside a shed situated on the riverbank about a hundred metres upstream. From there they could more closely observe the spot they needed to oversee. The shack was used for storing implements that might be needed by any of the villagers fishing in the river—a few nets, extra paddles for coracles and an assortment of small leather buckets. By shifting these around a bit, there was plenty of room for both Miles and the soldier and, since the walls of the shack were comprised of boards that had a few knotholes in them, it was easy for them to look through these to gain a view of the riverbank.

The wait for the villains to appear was tedious; it was hot inside the shed, and the myriad of insects buzzing around their heads was irksome. In the distance they could hear the villagers calling to one another as they left to tend the fields, and the cawing of crows circling overhead.

As the sun approached its zenith, Miles and the soldier’s anticipation grew and they hardly moved from watching through one of the spy holes in the shed wall except to take sips of ale from the small stoppered flagon they had brought with them.  Soon their efforts were rewarded when they saw a man on the other side of the river push out into the water a small coracle that had been hidden in the reeds. The stranger carried a strung bow, which he placed carefully in the bottom of the small boat before stepping in, and he had three or four arrows at his waist, held in place by the rough leather belt he wore. His head was bare and the puckered scar on the side of his head where his ear had once been could be plainly seen. They knew this must be Gode.

With bated breath they watched him paddle across the river and tie the coracle up to the small post erected there for the purpose. With great care he stepped up onto the bank, holding his bow at the ready, and intently scanned the surrounding area before crouching down amongst the reeds at the water’s edge.

Once the outlaw was settled, Miles relaxed a little. He was confident now that Martin had told them the truth about the meeting and that the instigator of the murder should appear shortly, and would be trailed, hopefully, by the two soldiers he had sent to watch the track by which it was believed he would come.

As the minutes passed, each one seemed like an hour. The day was now very warm and, by the time the space of a half-hour has passed, sweat began trickling in sticky streams from under the helms of both Miles and the man-at-arms. On the riverbank they could see Gode swatting impatiently at the wasps and flies that buzzed around his head, angrily muttering an oath or two at their pestering.

Just as Miles began to think that the paymaster would not keep his promise, a man appeared on the track alongside the river. He was short, and dressed in plain dark hose and tunic, but the hood of the light summer cloak he wore shrouded his features. Too short for Peter Vetir, Miles surmised, and although Adam Tisser was not as tall as the Nottingham draper, the figure of this man was too stumpy to be the murdered man’s younger brother, who was slim and had the litheness of youth. Miles raised his eyebrows in question at the man-at-arms beside him to see if he recognised him, but the soldier responded with a shake of his head. He was not known to him either.

As the stranger came closer to where Gode was seated, the outlaw stood up. “So you finally came,” he said scathingly. “Give me my money and let me get out of here before one of the villagers sees us.”

Dutifully, the newcomer pulled a bag from his belt and proffered it to the outlaw.

“Here is the payment we agreed on,” he said quietly. “I am as anxious as you are to have this business over with.”

As he finished speaking Miles saw two bowmen wearing the badge of the sheriff of Nottingham appear on the far bank of the river.

“Now,” the knight yelled to his companion and they both erupted from the shed and raced, swords drawn, to where Gode and the unknown man stood.

The guilty pair was taken completely by surprise. Gode turned and made to run for his coracle but was brought up short by sight of the Nottingham archers across the river. With a curse, he turned and raced along the riverbank in a southerly direction, away from Miles and the man-at-arms, only to be confronted by the pair of soldiers that had been watching the path by which the outlaw’s paymaster had come and had followed him to the meeting place. Realising he was trapped, Gode lifted his bow and fitted one of the arrows that he carried at his waist, firing wildly in Miles’ direction, but the shot went wide and before he could fire another, the knight had grabbed him. Within moments, he was in the firm grasp of a pair of men-at-arms.

Throughout Gode’s attempt to escape, the other man had not made a move, merely stood and watched quietly as the outlaw was taken.

Miles approached him and pushed back his hood. The man’s face seemed familiar, and he struggled to put a name to the visage before suddenly remembering where he had recently seen it before and the mention Gianni had made of his name in the records of the investigation.

“You are Bracel, clerk to the Tisser family, are you not?”

At the man’s nod, Miles gave a slight shake of his head in surprise and then asked why he had conspired to kill his former master.

“I did it for love of a woman,” Bracel replied.

The knight’s bemusement grew greater as he took in the implications of the answer. There were only two women on the list of suspects—Edward’s wife, Mary, and the daughter of Gilbert Tisser that had not been found—and both were many years younger than the man in front of him.  It did not seem likely that either would be engaged in a love affair with the aging clerk, so his statement must be either a ploy fabricated in an attempt to mitigate his guilt, or one of the two women had made a pretence of passion to encourage him to commit murder on her behalf.

“And who is this woman?” Miles demanded unbelievingly.

“Edward’s mother, Emmaline,” Bracel replied softly.

CHAPTER 31

After questioning the clerk a little further, Miles informed the Nottingham bowmen of the identity of their prisoner so it could be relayed to de Vieuxpont, and then he and the castle men-at-arms took Gode and Bracel back to Lincoln.

When they arrived, the knight, after seeing the prisoners safely incarcerated in a holding cell, immediately went into the keep and was told by Eudo that Sir Gerard and Lady Nicolaa were awaiting his return in the solar. Striding across the hall, he made his way up the stairs to the chamber, eager to relay the success of the ambush.

When he entered, the sheriff greeted him heartily, able to tell by the gratified expression on Miles’ face that the capture had gone well, and Lady Nicolaa sent a page running to fetch Gianni to record the knight’s report.

As soon as Gianni arrived, Miles began his tale—that it was Bracel who had hired Gode to kill Edward Tisser and promised him payment for the deed. He then went on to relate that the clerk had arranged the murder due to his desire to honour the wishes of the woman he had once loved, albeit from afar.

“Bracel came into John Tisser’s employ just after he and Emmaline were married and the clerk was immediately smitten with her beauty and gracious manner. Although she never gave him more than a friendly smile or nod in passing, he worshipped her nonetheless.

“He says that John Tisser’s treatment of his wife was harsh, even before she had borne Edward, their first child. The draper abused her verbally and once took a rod to her back for some small muddle with the housekeeping. Bracel said he did not blame her for seeking affection in the arms of Gilbert Tisser. He had heard it said that Gilbert was the man she would have married had her father not dictated otherwise.”

“Perhaps jealousy of his brother was at the root of John’s ill treatment of her,” Nicolaa suggested. “He knew his wife loved his brother rather than him and although it is certainly no excuse for his attitude towards her, it could explain why he possessed it.”

“Perhaps, lady,” Miles replied, “but according to Bracel, John Tisser was a cantankerous man by nature and treated everyone uncharitably, including his servants and the weavers and dyers he employed.”

“How did the clerk discover that his master’s wife was engaged in an illicit liaison with his brother?” the castellan asked.

“Through the agency of an elderly manservant—now long since dead—that had come from Nottingham with Emmaline at the time of her marriage,” Miles replied. “According to this manservant the affair did not start until some ten years after Edward was born. About that time, whenever John Tisser went off on one of his selling trips around the country, Emmaline would disappear for the odd day, riding out of Lincoln on a palfrey with only the manservant for escort. One night, when this servant—who was over fond of his ale—was in Bracel’s company, the clerk asked him where he and his mistress went so often and the servant, well in his cups, let it slip that they went to Collingham where he dozed the day away in the greenwood while his mistress met her lover.

“Bracel was not shocked, or even jealous, he told me,” Miles added. “He did not blame her for finding some happiness where and with whomever she could, and did all he could to prevent his master finding out about her adultery.

“The affair drifted on for some years until the events we have already learned about came to pass—Adam was born, John Tisser killed his brother, and then Emmaline, in her turn, murdered him and entered the nunnery.”

“And what has all this to do with the reason the clerk killed the draper?” Camville growled. “Edward was blameless for the sins his parents committed.”

“It all started when, a few months ago, Bracel accidentally discovered the letter Edward’s mother had written to her eldest son just before she became an anchorite,” Miles replied and then turned to Nicolaa. “You remember, lady, that Richilda Thornton told of how her sister had explained her actions to Edward through a written message?”

“I do,” Nicolaa replied.

“Well, it would seem she wrote rather more than what her sister told us. After telling Edward that Adam was Gilbert’s child, she asked him to look after his younger brother and, enclosing the dye receipt that her lover had given her, bid him, when Adam was old enough, to use it for his benefit by selling it to gain the necessary funds to make him a full partner in the drapery business Edward had inherited from his father.

“But Edward did not adhere to his mother’s wishes,” Miles explained, “and, according to Bracel, had no intention of doing so. Edward treated his half-brother with an amicable but distant courtesy during all the years of his childhood but, as Adam approached manhood, Edward made no attempt to teach or include him in the day to day running of the drapery. The clerk, after accidentally discovering the letter, more than once made the suggestion to Edward that Adam be taught the rudiments of the business, using the reason he was urging him to do so was that his involvement would ease the burden on Edward. But for all his attempts to encourage Edward to do as Emmaline has wished, his prompting was always curtly rebuffed, and he knew that Edward had no intention of honouring his mother’s instructions. It was after this that Bracel, out of respect for the woman he had loved for so long, and had just learned, through the letter, had walled herself up in seclusion out of guilt for crimes that were not all of her own making, decided to kill Edward, for he had become just like his father in his heart, spiteful and cruel to the brother he should have loved. He arranged it, so he told me, in order that Adam could, as his mother intended, claim the inheritance of the dye receipt.”

“How did it come about that he hired Gode to murder the draper?” Gerard asked.

“Again, it was by chance. Every year Bracel made a trip to see a young cousin—the only family he has left—who have a daughter to whom he was made godfather, to take the child a gift on her natal day in March. The cousin lives north of Lincoln, in a village close to Sherwood Forest and, this year, as he was returning to town along a lonely stretch of road, and, as it happened, trying to determine the best way to despatch his master without the blame being laid on himself or Adam, he was accosted by three outlaws carrying bows, threatening to shoot him unless he relinquished whatever money he had on him. As fate would have it, one of these wolf’s heads was Gode. Bracel immediately recognised him, having seen him on the few occasions when he had been sent by John Tisser to Collingham with payment for cloth that Gilbert had sold him. The clerk addressed Gode by name, and as he identified his own self realised that Gode, with his ability as a bowman, would be the perfect agency to employ in killing Edward.

“Knowing Gode had never had any familial affection for Edward, the clerk, after relinquishing the small number of coins he had to the brigands, engaged Gode in conversation and asked if he could speak to him privately. After walking away from the other outlaws, the clerk suggested his plan, including the fact that he would give all of the savings he had managed to accumulate over the years to Gode in return for the murder. As Bracel had expected, Gode readily agreed to the plot. They arranged to meet to discuss it further at the very spot where they were captured today and it was there that Bracel, who was necessarily familiar with Edward Tisser’s itinerary for trips away from Lincoln, gave Gode a small amount of silver as a show of good faith, and told him that Edward would be on Ermine Street travelling south on the day he was due to go to the weaver at Coleby.”

Here Miles halted in his narration to give Gianni a chance to catch up with the notes he was making and, once the lad gave a nod to signify he was ready, the knight continued.

“There is not much more to tell, except that when I questioned Gode as to why he had not robbed Tisser after he killed him, he finally admitted—after a little forceful persuasion—that it was because he had not had the opportunity to do so. His said that due to his skill with a bow being only recently acquired his aim was not always accurate and when he fired the first arrow it only grazed the draper’s cheek. The second flew more straightly but still was not fatal, piercing the thigh instead of the chest, and that Tisser, by then, having had enough time to react to the attack, gave a great shout and put his heels to his horse. But instead of continuing along the road, the animal, startled, plunged sideways into the greenwood to the base of the oak tree and there stopped and began to buck, throwing the draper to the ground. When this happened, Gode was able to shoot again, finally killing Tisser with a well-placed arrow to the neck. But because of all the commotion, what with the draper shouting and the horse neighing, Gode was frightened that a small party of travellers that had passed by the spot just a few minutes before might have heard the noise and come back to investigate, so he took refuge in the trees for a space, intending to wait there until he felt it was safe to return to the body and remove Tisser’s money and valuables. But unfortunately for him, by then Teramo and his escort had appeared a little way down the road and he had no choice but to leave the draper’s possessions intact.”

“And in so doing led us to investigate the death,” Nicolaa remarked. “Had he managed to rob his victim, it is unlikely we would have decided to look into the killing and Bracel and Gode’s scheme would never have been discovered.”

CHAPTER 32

When Miles and Gianni left Lady Nicolaa and her husband, they went down the tower stairs to the hall. At the entrance to the huge room, the knight clapped Gianni on the shoulder. “I have enjoyed our time together in hunting down these miscreants, lad. Should you require my assistance again, I will be more than pleased, with the sheriff’s permission, to give it.”

Gianni gave the knight a smile and a nod of thanks. Miles had, indeed, been an able and pleasant companion during the investigation and although Gianni would have much preferred to have the Templar at his side, he had been glad of the knight’s presence.

As they parted to return to their separate duties, Gianni did not notice that Teramo was sitting at a small table nearby the place he and Miles had been standing. The emissary had smiled as he heard the knight’s parting words, for they seemed to imply that Gianni would now return to his regular schedule. If that was so, then he need only wait a day, perhaps two, to put the plan he had devised into action, a length of time that suited him admirably.

*************

The next two days passed quickly. The next morning the sheriff left to ride to Nottingham to give de Vieuxpont a full recounting of the details of the murder and advise him that the criminals would be held for trial until the next session of his court in a month’s time. And, he told his wife, if the Nottingham sheriff was amenable, he might stay to enjoy a couple of day’s hunting with de Vieuxpont before returning to Lincoln.

After he had gone, Nicolaa, as she had agreed with Gerard, sent Roget to bring Adam and Mary Tisser from their home and, enclosing herself with them privately in the solar, gave them the sad history behind Edward’s death, and how it had led up to Bracel arranging his murder. Mary was distraught, but her anguish paled beside Adam’s. The shock of learning that the man he had believed to be his father had committed fratricide on his true sire was almost as overwhelming as the discovery that his mother was not dead. This was compounded when he was told that, according to the letter Bracel had found, Edward had not only denied his young half-brother any involvement in the drapery business, as Emmaline had wished, but also the inheritance of the dye receipt that she had been given by Gilbert.

At the end of Nicolaa’s recounting, Mary stood sobbing unrestrainedly, but Adam was dry-eyed and grim-faced. “I know that Bracel must pay the full penalty for his crime,” he said to the castellan, “but I swear to you, lady, that I will never cease to give thanks for his management of it for, if I had ever become apprised of what you have just told me, I believe I would have murdered Edward myself.”

The intensity of the young man’s pronouncement made Mary stifle her weeping and regard him with apprehension. “You will not take your enmity towards their father out on my children, will you, Adam? They are innocents in this and I have no other way to support them if you cast me out.”

Adam’s face softened and he laid a hand on her arm. “You have no need to fear me, Mary. There has already been more than enough malice within the ranks of my family and I have no desire to perpetuate it. I do not know how successful I will be in taking over the drapery without Bracel to guide me, but be assured I will do all within my power to keep you and my nieces and nephew safe from want.”

Nicolaa was heartened by the young man’s attitude toward his half-brother’s widow and children and thought that perhaps the seed of bitterness that had flourished in the Tisser family had finally been rooted out.

*************

That evening she received a message from Bascot de Marins, telling her of what he had discovered about the Sclafani family. In response, she penned a note and sent one the garrison soldiers back with it straight away, thanking him for the information and telling him, briefly, of the vital role Gianni had just played in discovering the identity of the two men that had conspired to murder the draper. She had then paused for a moment in reflection. The Sclafani family’s infamous behaviour was mirrored in that of the Tisser family. Could it be that this evil inclination towards relatives was a trait that might be inherited, she wondered. If so, she was relieved that Gianni would never be in the company of Cettina Sclafani.

She finished her note to the Templar by telling him that Gianni’s resolve to stay in England remained unshaken, knowing that after his discovery about the disreputable history of Cettina’s family, de Marins would be as glad as she that the lad had refused to recognise the claim that he was Umberto.

************

The next day, Nicolaa sent for Teramo to attend her. As before, she received him in the solar, with two menservants in attendance at the far end of the chamber. Formally she told him that Gianni had not changed his mind about returning to Italy and that, if the emissary wished, she would herself pen a note to Count di Marsi for him to take back to Italy with him, in which she would explain the circumstances of Gianni’s refusal so as to ensure that he would not bear any blame for the failure of his mission.

“I am regretful that the lad has decided not to take up his rightful position, dama, but wish to thank you for the kindness you have shown me while I have been in Lincoln,” the Italian responded in tones just as formal as her own. “Your willingness to write to the count is also appreciated for, even though I am not fearful of his disapprobation, it may be that such a letter will ease his revelation of this sad news to Umberto’s father.”

Nicolaa nodded and said the missive would be ready later that day, whereupon Teramo replied that, since that was so, he would ask permission to leave at first light the next morning, to which she agreed.

As he gave a bow and left her presence, she felt a slight shock of surprise at his easy capitulation to Gianni’s decision. His features had been bland as he spoke and, if there remained any trace of the barely controlled anger that had formerly been evident in his manner, he had hidden it well. Ordering one of the menservants to bring Gianni to the solar so she could tell him that the Italian would soon be gone, she could not rid herself of a frisson of unease at the suddenness of the emissary’s volte-face.

CHAPTER 33

Just as the first rays of approaching dawn were beginning to lighten the sky, Teramo and his escort rode out of the bail. Gianni stood on the steps of the forebuilding and watched them leave, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. As the emissary and his two guards disappeared through the gate, the Sicilian servant, Enzu, who was at the rear of their party, turned and looked back. Seeing Gianni on the steps, he caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head before tilting it towards the upper part of the bail. In a moment he, too, was gone from sight, leaving Gianni wondering what his strange movements had meant. He scanned the ward where Enzu had seemed to be directing his attention, but all was as usual. Castle servants were rubbing sleep from their eyes as they wended their way to make a start on their daily tasks, the guards on the parapet were striding back and forth, and a few small birds were perched on the low wall of the small herb garden situated on that side of the bail.

Shrugging his shoulders in dismissal, Gianni walked across the ward to the postern gate in the north-western corner that led out onto a small track to the western gate of the town and, after crossing it, entered the precincts of St. Clement’s church. It had always been his practice, when not away from the castle, to attend mass here each morning and he had gratefully returned to the church for the service yesterday. Most of the castle servants only went to mass once a week but when he had first come to Lincoln with the Templar, he had gone there every morning with Bascot and so attendance had now, when his duties permitted, become ingrained habit.

As had happened yesterday morning, the first day he had been able to resume his regime, he was filled with solace as he entered the nave of the church. He knew that his troubles with Teramo might not be over, for the Italian could well be on his way to entreat King John to support the di Marsi claim and force Lady Nicolaa to insist that Gianni return to Italy but, for the nonce, he was safe and, if the worst did happen, he would revert to his plan to leave Lincoln and seek sanctuary in a monastery. For now, though, he would attend the service and offer up grateful thanks to God for allowing him at least a respite from his troubles and also send up a fervent prayer that he would never again, for as long as he lived, hear the name of Umberto di Marsi. Once mass was over, he would return to the keep, break his fast with Lambert and Ewan, and then accompany them to the scriptorium to begin the day’s work.

The familiar rite of mass was comforting and the text the priest chose to read, from Psalm 143, beginning with the verse ‘Hear my prayer O Lord, give ear to my supplications’ was particularly apt and Gianni felt his heart swell with the certainty of heaven’s protection. After receiving the sacrament, he knelt for a few moments in front of the altar, and then stepped outside.

Just as he exited through the door of the church, he saw one of the castle men-at-arms standing outside the postern gate on the other side of the track between the bail and St. Clement’s. The soldier was one that had been hired recently, and although he had never been in his company, Gianni knew his visage well from seeing him about the ward. His name was Rollo, he recalled.

As Gianni approached the gate, the man-at-arms stepped forward. “I had hoped you would be here,” he said, “Serjeant Ernulf sent me to find you and give you a message that has come from the Templar preceptory about one of the monks, a knight named Sir Bascot de Marins.”

At Gianni’s questioning look, the soldier went on. “The message was from the preceptor and is a request for you to go immediately to the commandery. It would seem that Sir Bascot has been badly hurt in an accident and is asking for your presence.”

A thrill of dread ran through Gianni. Bascot’s injury must be a grievous one for him to send such a summons; he must go to him at once.

Giving the soldier a nod, he set off at a run towards the rear of the church building, making for a path which ran along the outside of the town walls and led to the commandery. He had a good mile to run before he would reach the preceptory, but this route was much shorter than going back into the bail and traversing

Ermine Street and the Minster to reach the same path.

The man-at-arms kept pace with him, which surprised Gianni, but he took no notice, his mind on reaching Bascot as quickly as possible. But just as they were approaching that portion of the town wall where Newport Arch, the northern gate into the city, was situated, Gianni felt his arm grabbed by the soldier.

“Hold up, youngster,” Rollo said, tightening his grip. “This is as far as you go.”

Gianni looked at him in amazement and tried to shake himself loose, but the man-at-arms was much stronger than he and laughed as he seized Gianni’s other arm and twisted both it and the other one up behind him, holding him fast by the wrists. Frantically Gianni looked around for help, but it was so early there was no one in sight on the track and the soldiers on duty at Newport Arch were still hidden from view.

Giving a loud whistle, the soldier dragged Gianni into a stand of trees at the track’s edge and stopped, holding his captive motionless. In moments, Teramo’s guards appeared, both mounted, one of them with some pieces of leather thong in his hand, the other leading a palfrey. At the rear was their master, the emissary, an evil grin on his face.

“Did anyone see you take him?” he asked Rollo.

“No,” the man-at-arms assured him.

Teramo turned to one of his guards and, speaking in Italian, told him to lift Gianni onto the palfrey and tie his hands in front of him and secure his feet underneath the horse’s belly.

“Then put this over him so his bonds can’t be seen,” he added, tossing a long black cloak to the guard.

Gianni fought with all his might, twisting and squirming until the guard gave him a sharp clout alongside his head, which stunned him and left his ears ringing. Within a very short time, he was trussed up like a hog ready for slaughter on the palfrey’s back and engulfed in the cloak, the hood pulled down so only a small opening was left for him to see through.

At this point, Teramo came up close to Gianni and grabbed him by the chin, lifting his face so he was looking straight into his eyes. “You should have agreed to come with me to Italy willingly; you have only yourself to blame for making it necessary to use force to gain your compliance.”

Teramo handed Rollo a small leather purse that clinked. “Here is your payment. Go back to your post now and forget you ever saw us.”

“Right willingly,” the soldier said, hefting the purse and smiling as he felt its weight.

Once he was gone, the emissary led the two guards and Gianni back into the trees. There Enzu was waiting, his face white with fear.

“You must not take the boy,” he pleaded in Sicilianu with Teramo. “If we are caught, we will all be killed.”

“Be quiet, you coward,” the emissary snarled. “I have no more need of you, so if you value your life, you will be silent.”

Enzu dropped his head, knowing further protest was useless, and with a helpless look at Gianni guided his mount after Teramo as he spurred his horse further into the trees and took a path that crossed

Ermine Street and was distant enough from Newport Arch that the guards on the gate would not see them. From there they went onto a track that led eastwards towards the coast. Once on it, they picked up the pace and rode swiftly.

Gianni cursed himself for being gulled by the deception that the Templar had been injured. If it had been true, Ernulf, who was a close friend of Bascot’s, would not have sent one of the men-at-arms to tell of it, but come himself and accompanied Gianni to the preceptory. But it was too late now for self-recrimination. He had been taken and, from Teramo’s words, would soon be on his way back to Italy, most likely on a ship anchored in one of the ports on the coast towards which they were heading.

As he struggled to loosen the bonds on his hands, he wondered why the emissary had seized him. No matter how much he was threatened, he would never admit to being Umberto, or consent to live in a house that included Cettina Sclafani. If Teramo believed he would change his mind, then the emissary was completely mistaken.

Turning his mind from this useless conjecture, he pondered instead how soon his absence would be noticed in the castle, the only direction from which he could expect help to come. But he quickly realised it was a forlorn hope; once it was determined that he was missing, no one would realise he had been abducted or, if they did, where he had been taken. He must depend on his own wits to secure his freedom and prayed for heaven to help him find a way to escape before he was taken on board a ship.

CHAPTER 34

It did not take long for those in the castle to realise that Gianni had disappeared. Lambert was the first to be aware of his absence when the lad did not return from St. Clement’s to join himself and Ewan for the morning meal. The clerk was unaware of the import of his nonappearance at first, merely thought it strange, for Gianni seemed to be always hungry and was never dilatory in arriving at board. When the meal was over, and the lad had still not appeared, he thought that perhaps he had been called by Lady Nicolaa to take dictation but, when he and Ewan entered the scriptorium, he saw that Gianni’s scribing tools were still in place on his lectern where he had left them the night before. Knowing he would not have gone to take dictation from their mistress without them, the first tinge of concern began to trouble him.

Sending Ewan out into the bail to enquire if anyone had seen Gianni return from attendance at mass, he went to the small chamber that Lady Nicolaa used as her office and where she was likely to be found most mornings, to ask if she had sent Gianni on an errand. The castellan’s eyebrows rose when Lambert told her the reason he had come.

“Are you certain Gianni has not returned from church?”

“I am not sure that he came back, only that he went there for the service at Prime, as he usually does,” Lambert admitted. “Both Ewan and I saw him when we all rose from our pallets this morning and I asked him if he was going and he nodded. Since then I have not seen him and he should have been back long since. I have sent Ewan to enquire if anyone saw him return in case he has been delayed in the bail for some reason.”

Nicolaa became as concerned as her secretarius. “It is most unlike him to be late. He is very punctilious.”

Lambert nodded in agreement and, at that moment, there was a knock at the door. It was Ewan.

“I beg your pardon, lady, for disturbing you,” he said to Nicolaa, “but I thought I should tell you and Lambert that although many of the servants saw Gianni leave the bail through the postern gate, none saw him return. I then went to St. Clement’s and asked the priest if Gianni had attended mass. He said that he had and left as soon as it was over. When I enquired if he had been in the company of anyone who might have delayed him, I was told that he was alone at mass but after he left, the priest happened to glance through the door of the church while collecting coins from the offertory box and saw him speaking to one of the castle men-at-arms.”

“Did Gianni leave with the soldier?” Nicolaa asked.

“I asked the priest that, lady, but he said he took no notice of whether he did or not as he was busy with his task,” Ewan replied.

“Did he know the name of the soldier?” was Nicolaa’s next question.

Ewan shook his head. “He did not, but said that he had only seen that same man-at-arms in attendance at services for the last two weeks, so believes he must be a recent addition to the castle garrison.”

Nicolaa glanced at Lambert. “Then he must be the man Ernulf hired three weeks ago. Except for him, no others have been taken on for at least a twelve month. You would have entered his name on the list of servants. Do you recall it?”

“It is Rollo, lady,” the clerk replied.

Nicolaa rose from her seat. “Lambert, you return to the scriptorium in case Gianni comes back there. Ewan, you will come with me to the bail to ask Serjeant Ernulf to find Rollo.”

*************

As they went their separate ways, Bascot de Marins was just entering the ward, his intention to deliver a message from Preceptor MacHeth to Lady Nicolaa that a shipment of boiled sugar lumps made from canes that grew in the fields near Acre and sent to England from Templar property in the Holy Land, had arrived. Called al-Kandiq by the Arabs, they were known in England simply as candi, and were one of the many commodities the Templars used in trade to raise funds for the upkeep of the Order. The castellan usually kept a small supply to offer to visitors and had run out, so when she had placed the order she asked that it be filled as soon as possible. It was a mundane message, and would normally have been sent by one of the Templar men-at-arms but MacHeth, knowing that Bascot would welcome the opportunity to ask Lady Nicolaa about the Italian emissary’s reception of Gianni’s refusal to return to Italy, had asked him to deliver it.

When Bascot arrived, Miles de Laxton was standing in conversation with Roget and Ernulf outside the long low building that housed the garrison and, after giving his mount into the care of a groom, the Templar walked over to give them greeting. After a brief conversation, and just as he was about to make his way into the keep, Nicolaa came down the steps of the forebuilding and called to Ernulf.

“Gianni is missing,” she told him succinctly when he was standing in front of her, “and was last seen in the company of Rollo, one of our men-at-arms. Find Rollo and bring him to me immediately.”

As Ernulf set off at a run, Bascot, Roget and Miles, who had all heard what the castellan had said, quickly strode over to her.

The Templar’s face was ashen as he asked what had passed with Gianni.

“We do not know where he is, de Marins,” Nicolaa replied, “only that he went to attend mass at St. Clement’s this morning and never returned. The priest there said he saw him talking to a man-at-arms after he left and, from the priest’s description, it would appear to have been Rollo. That is why I wish to question him.”

It was only moments before Ernulf reappeared, accompanied by a tall well-muscled soldier with cropped red hair. As they approached, the man-at-arms appeared uneasy when he saw Lady Nicolaa.

“You were seen in the company of my clerk Gianni this morning outside St. Clement’s church,” Nicolaa said to him. “Where did he go after he left you?”

Rollo shrugged. “I do not know, lady, I left him and returned to the bail.”

“For what reason were you outside the church?” Nicolaa asked.

The man-at-arms looked increasingly uncomfortable. “I was going to attend mass but, by the time I arrived, the service was over.”

“Are you deaf then, Rollo?” Ernulf said to him in a tone that brooked disbelief. “The bells for the service must have rung a good half-hour before to warn it was starting, so how could you believe you would arrive there in time?”

“I…I…thought I would have time to be present at the end,” Rollo replied haltingly, “but it was too late so I didn’t go in.”

It was a lame excuse and most obviously a falsehood.

Bascot stepped forward and held his face close to the soldier’s, his hand on the hilt of the sword on his belt. “You are lying,” he said with menace. “Tell us where Gianni is or you will not live to see another day break.”

Rollo tried to step back, but his arms were gripped on each side by Roget and Ernulf.

“Answer the Templar, cochon, or I will break your arm before he guts you,” Roget threatened through gritted teeth.

The soldier blanched and sweat broke out on his forehead as he made his answer.

“A few days ago the Italian emissary that was here asked me if there were any times when the lad was alone outside the castle walls and I…I told him that, if he wasn’t absent from Lincoln, he always went every morning to the early mass at St. Cuthbert’s.”

Here, the soldier faltered, but when Roget gave him a fierce shake, he stumbled on. “The Italian told me that Gianni was reluctant to go back to Italy, but would soon change his mind once he was there and would be pleased he had gone.”

Rollo raised beseeching eyes to Bascot. “I wouldn’t have helped the Italian if I hadn’t thought he was telling the truth. The lad’s got a rich inheritance waiting for him there and…”

Bascot stepped forward and seized the soldier by the throat, squeezing until Rollo was choking and the redness of his face was almost the same colour as his hair. “You gave him aid for money, you bastard. Now tell us what you have done with Gianni or you have just breathed your last.”

“I…I forced the lad into the woods,” he gasped out, “to where the Italian was waiting with his guards.”

“And where have they taken him?” Bascot gritted out, the icy blue of his eye glittering with fury.

“Back to Italy, the emissary said,” the soldier said.

“By what route?” Bascot barked, his patience near an end.

“I swear I don’t know,” Rollo answered with desperation. “Teramo never told me.”

“Do not lie. You must have learned his plans when you were arranging to betray Gianni,” Bascot growled, his grip on the soldier’s throat tightening even further. “He would be taking the lad to a port to board ship for Italy. Which one—London or Hull?”

“He never told me,” Rollo panted. “All he said is that it wouldn’t take long to be free of England.”

“Must be Hull,” Ernulf muttered. “It’s a shorter journey from Lincoln than going to London and Teramo will want to get the lad out of the country as quickly as he can.”

“But Grimsby is even closer,” Roget said, remembering the time that he and Bascot had gone there during a previous murder investigation and that the small port was barely forty miles away. “Even if there is not an ocean-going ship in the harbour there, Teramo could hire a smaller boat to use as a ferry either up to the Humber Estuary, or down to larger port further south, where passage on a vessel sailing across the Narrow Sea to Francia, or even to Italy, would be easy to obtain.”

“That makes sense,” Nicolaa said. “And Teramo has had time during the days while we were in Nottingham to ride to Grimsby and secure a small boat for the purpose. And once Teramo has Gianni at sea, we will never be able to catch him.”

Bascot released Rollo, shoving him backwards so roughly that the man-at-arms stumbled and fell to the ground. The Templar then ran towards the stables for his horse.

“Miles, go with him,” Nicolaa ordered. “He may need another sword to aid him overcome Teramo’s guards.”

As the knight raced after Bascot, Nicolaa turned to Roget. “In case the emissary has decided to try for London, take some of your men and go to enquire of the guards on the town’s southern gate if he and his escort passed through this morning. Even if they haven’t, go a few miles south of town and ask in the villages that lie along

Ermine Street if anyone has seen them pass lest they left Lincoln by circuiting the town walls. If that is the route Teramo has taken, you are to follow them at all speed and use whatever force is necessary to rescue Gianni and bring that treacherous emissary back here.”

As Roget sped off, and Ernulf hauled Rollo off to the holding cells to incarcerate him, the castellan berated herself for not ensuring that Gianni had stayed inside the safety of the castle walls until it was certain that Teramo was far away from Lincoln. But how could she have foreseen the Italian’s rash action? It did not make any sense to take Gianni—who had been adamant in his refusal to believe he was Umberto—back to a father she was certain the lad would not acknowledge. If the emissary believed he could change Gianni’s mind during the long journey back to his homeland or, as he had told Rollo, that he could be coaxed into acceptance by lure of the riches awaiting him, then the emissary was greatly in error. The lad may be young and possess only the soft muscles of a clerk, but he had great inner fortitude. She knew full well that once he was set on a course he believed to be right, he would not change it, nor would he give in to any threats, or enticements, that others might use in an attempt to force him to act differently.

Knowing the extent of the lad’s resolve, she shuddered at thought of the reception his refusal to accept the role of Umberto might invoke in such powerful men as the count and Rinaldo di Marsi. It was entirely possible they might see his rejection as insolence and cast him out into the streets to starve, or even incarcerate him. He did not deserve either. Taking a deep breath to calm her anxiety, she sent up a fervent prayer that the lad would be found before Teramo could take him away from the shores of England.

CHAPTER 35

Once they were a couple of miles distant from Lincoln, Teramo eased the swiftness of their pace to ensure the horses did not tire before they reached Grimsby. The Italian did not fear immediate pursuit; he believed that no one had seen Rollo seize Gianni and assumed that even should the lad be quickly missed, there was no trace left as to why he had gone or in which direction. Also, there was no reason for himself to be considered guilty of the abduction, if such it was finally deemed to be, for he and his escort had been seen to leave the castle precincts while Gianni was still in the bail. The emissary was pleased at how smoothly the lad had been taken and if leaving England went just as well, he would soon be en route to Italy with his captive.

Tied firmly to the horse between the two guards, Gianni tried to catch the words of intermittent conversation between them and Teramo. At one point he heard them speak of Grimsby, so he now knew where they were headed, and also mention of a ship that had been hired and would be ready to leave today by the noon tide. If the Italian’s plan succeeded, it would be only a few short hours until there was no chance of rescue.

The lad glanced alongside him at Enzu, who had a frightened look on his face and was gripping the reins of his mount with grim determination. The Sicilian gave him a sad smile of commiseration and Gianni realised he was sympathetic to his cause. His strange nodding of his head in the direction of the postern gate as he had left the bail with Teramo that morning had been meant to warn Gianni not to go to St. Clement’s church. Gianni returned the Sicilian’s smile and Enzu looked gratified to see the lad realised that he was not part of the emissary’s conspiracy. If a moment came when it was practicable, Gianni was certain Enzu would help him.

He looked down at the thong that bound his hands. He had not been able to loosen it one particle even though the flesh on his wrists was sore and bleeding from his attempts to twist them free. And he could not take the chance of lifting the thong to his teeth to try and pull it loose for if he released his hold on the saddle bow his body might slip sideways and, with his feet bound as well, he would in danger of becoming upended. If that happened, he was certain to be struck on his head and upper body by the hooves of his horse.

He must summon up patience, he thought. At some point when they reached Grimsby, they would have to untie his feet to take him off his mount in order to put him on the boat; that was the moment he must try to seize. He was fleet of foot and was certain he could outrun the guards if he had the chance and then, hopefully, might be able to find a place to hide until he could escape from the town.

*************

Bascot and Miles pressed the pace until they were clear of Lincoln and then, with teeth gritted in frustration at the need, they set their mounts, as Teramo had done, into a slow and steady canter to conserve their animal’s stamina.

As they rode, the sky darkened in the east and soon a sharp wind began to gust. The wind’s intensity increased as they went on, and they passed little traffic on the road. And when they asked the few they encountered—a lone pedlar and a couple of workmen with bags of tools slung on their backs—if they had seen a party of horsemen pass by, all answered in the negative. It was only after they had covered almost twenty miles, and the sky above was filled with dark scudding clouds and scattered droplets of rain were beginning to fall, that the driver of a oxen-drawn cart drawn gave them information that appeared to confirm their suspicion that Teramo and his men might be taking Gianni to Grimsby.

The driver, a farmer with half-a-dozen bleating goats that he was taking to sell in Market Rasen in the back of the wagon, told them a small band of horsemen had ridden past him in an easterly direction just as he was pulling onto the road after leaving his home in Caistor.

“There wus five of them,” he added and when pressed for a description, said, “One wus dressed like a lord, a couple looked like soldiers and the other two like servants.”

“Was one of the servants a lad about seventeen years of age?” Bascot enquired, both he and Miles’s spirits raised by what they were sure was a sighting of their quarry.

“Might o’ been,” the farmer replied after a moment’s consideration. “There wus one all wrapped up in a cloak and hood so’s I couldn’t see his face right well.  I suppose he could’ve been younger than the rest.”

Bascot and Miles quickly reckoned up how long a time had passed since the farmer had seen the horsemen. The ox-cart would be slow in transit, travelling about three miles an hour, and since the farmer had journeyed approximately six miles from Caistor, it must have been about two hours previously that he had seen the party of riders. The two knights exchanged glances. They were only halfway to the port; there was still twenty miles to go.

After tossing the farmer a couple of silver pennies in thanks for his information, both knights turned their horses into the face of the rain-sodden wind and, sending up ardent prayers they would reach Gianni before Teramo had taken him on board a boat, they started off once again in the direction of the port.

CHAPTER 36

Grimsby

As the knights resumed the chase, Teramo and his party were approaching Grimsby along the road cut through the wide stretch of marshland that encircled the town. Rain still fell and all of their clothing was drenched, but the sky seemed to be lightening in the south, an indication that the sudden and early summer storm might soon be over.

With the Italians cursing the English weather, they passed the small stone shed that stood at the entrance to the port, where a guard was installed as a lookout, and rode onto the one main street that bisected Grimsby. The smell of the ocean was strong, as was that of fish, and already coastal birds were reappearing in the wake of the passing squall to resume their search for food.

Teramo continued on in the direction of the harbour and Gianni, now that the pace had slowed almost to a walk and the guards’ attention fixed on their surroundings instead of him, risked lifting his wrists to his mouth and making an attempt to loosen the binding on his wrist with his teeth. As he did so, he also tried to catch the gaze of any of the few people on the street, but those that were there were hurrying past to find shelter from the rain and did not take any notice of the lad wrapped up like a bundle on the back of a horse.

When they reached the harbour, there was a bit more activity. The tide was high, and several medium-sized boats were tied to a short wooden pier, all rocking slightly on the still choppy waves. On the beach, coracles were turned upside down, some weighted with stones to prevent them being blown away and, out in the harbour a large ship was anchored, its sail furled around its tall mast, and flying a banner bearing a flame-streaked symbol that Gianni recognised from his childhood in Palermo as belonging to the country of France.

Ordering his guards to keep watch over their captive, Teramo rode down onto the beach and addressed a seaman who was toiling alongside two other sailors in swabbing water from the decks of one of the boats tied up at the pier. The emissary must have made the seaman’s acquaintance previously, Gianni realised, for he called the sailor by name, which was Nils. The vessel on which he and the other seamen were working was approximately forty feet in length, had a square sail—now furled on its mast—and a flat-bottom, the latter causing it to ride the turbulent water with more stability than its neighbours, which all had the vee-shaped hulls of fishing boats. Set into the prow was a small wooden cabin for the use of passengers during inclement weather and also to store sailing tools such as rope and oakum for caulking.

The sailor greeted Teramo with a nod of recognition and the emissary asked him if he was ready to take on board the passengers for which he had previously paid to be ferried to Hull.

Before answering, Nils, a small, slim man with a wiry build and a shock of flaxen hair, scanned the water beyond the harbour and then looked up at the sky, where the sun was shining through a break in the scudding clouds. “Have to wait a little bit for the tide to turn,” he pronounced. “‘Twill be time enough just past midday, I reckon.”

The Italian, in his turn, looked up at the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead and so it wanted little more than an hour to noon. “I and my men need to get food and drink while we wait. Where is the nearest alehouse?”

The sailor pointed back up towards the town, where shops lined the main road before it petered out at the edge of the beach. “You’ll find two just up there, and there’s also a cook-shop that sells pies and pottage.”

Teramo nodded. “Have you arranged a buyer for my horses?” he asked.

“I have,” Nils replied. “One of the townsmen keeps a few to sell to travellers who land here and are in need of a mount. He will give you a fair price, but wants to inspect your animals before he makes an offer.”

The information satisfied Teramo, and he told the seaman to come to the alehouse when it was time to sail and to bring the horse buyer with him. The sailor gave a nod of compliance and turned his attention back to ensuring his vessel was seaworthy.

After riding the short distance to the cook-shop, which was next door to an alehouse, and their horses tethered to a post put there for the purpose, Teramo dismounted and gave some coins to one of the guards. “Get some food for all of us to eat and bring mine into the alehouse,” he instructed in Italian. “I’ll order you and the others some of the foul drink the English call ale while I’m waiting. And,” he added to the other guard, gesturing to Gianni and Enzu, “make sure you keep watch over this pair while he’s at the cook-shop.”

As Teramo strode into the alehouse, the guard ordered to get the victuals went up to the open counter set in the lower casement of the shop and, in barely understandable English, managed to purchase half-a-dozen pies and some wooden bowls of thick stew. Since he could not carry it all at once, he motioned for the guard who had remained by the horses to come forward a few paces and take food for himself, Gianni and Enzu, while he delivered Teramo’s portion.

As the guard who was watching over them stepped away to take hold of a couple of pies and two bowls of pottage, Enzu nudged his horse close to Gianni and whispered softly to him in Sicilianu. “You must try to get free,” he said. “Teramo means to kill you once he has got you away from England.”

Gianni, startled, looked at him in surprise. “It is true,” Enzu stated quietly. “He wants you dead so that…”

Before he could explain any further, the guard turned back towards them and Enzu fell silent. The guard shoved a pie at Gianni who, his fingers shaking so badly from the shock of hearing the Sicilian’s words, could barely clasp it in his bound hands. “You’ll get some soup when you’ve finished that,” the guard added with an evil grin, “if me and my compagno haven’t eaten it all by then.”

The pie remained uneaten in Gianni’s hand as he tried to take in what Enzu had told him. Cold sweat began to cover his body and he felt as though he would vomit. Desperately he looked at the few passersby in the hope they would notice he was being held captive but, no matter how intently he looked into the faces of the men that entered the cook-shop or alehouse, none took any notice, nor could any see that, underneath the hanging folds of the cloak, his hands and feet were bound. And Enzu, with his inability to communicate in English, would be just as hampered as Gianni if he made an attempt to raise an alarm, for no one would understand what he was trying to tell them. Gianni sagged in the saddle, the pie dropping unheeded onto the ground. Never in his life had his inability to speak distressed him more than now.

*************

In too short a time, Nils arrived and went into the alehouse in the company of one of the townsmen, a short tubby fellow with a round face and darting eyes.

Within moments, Teramo reappeared in their company and motioned for the townsman, who was obviously the horse-buyer, to inspect their mounts, which were all still tied to the hitching post. The prospective purchaser walked slowly around them, running his hands knowingly over each one before looking in their mouths. When he came to the horse that Gianni was astride, he saw that the lad’s ankles were bound under the animal’s belly and looked up at Teramo.

“Can’t see this one properly with the lad all trussed up on his back,” he said. “Need to have him taken off.”

With a nod to one of the guards to remove the leather thong binding Gianni’s feet, the emissary explained the reason for the imprisonment in response to the questioning expression of the horse buyer.

“As I have already told Nils,” he said smoothly, “the lad is a thief and an attempted murderer and I am taking him back to Italy to stand trial for his crimes. Sheriff Camville of Lincoln assisted me in his capture, and it is with his permission that I am returning the boy to his homeland.”

Gianni, mouth agape at the momentous lie, shook his head violently in denial, but the horse buyer, at mention of the sheriff, accepted the story and his response was made with deference. “T’ain’t no business of mine what the lad’s done, master,” he said humbly, “just want to look at the horse, that’s all.”

When he was done with his examination, he turned to Teramo. “These horses have been ridden hard,” he said, “but I reckon they’re sound. I’ll make you an offer of ten shillings for these four altogether,” he indicated the guards’ horses along with the ones Gianni and Enzu were riding, “and I’ll give you five shillings for your own.”

The price was low, especially as the mount the emissary was riding had been bought in London to make the journey to Lincoln, and was a fine animal. But even though Teramo was aware of this, he did not dicker, merely accepted the money and directed his men—with Gianni’s arm gripped tightly by one of them—and Enzu to follow himself and Nils to the harbour.

As he was dragged onto the pier, Gianni, knowing that once he was put on the boat, all hope of escape would be gone, made a determined effort to free himself, biting the hand of the guard where it was clamped around his arm and kicking him in the shins. But his efforts proved to be in vain. In response the guard gave him a harsh cuff alongside his head that cut his lip and made his nose stream with blood, and then thrust him forward with a great shove so that he fell to his knees and had to be hauled up again.

His one chance lost, and his vision blurry from the blow, Gianni made no more attempt to escape, allowing himself be led toward Nils’ boat, inside which a couple of other sailors had joined the two seamen who had been there earlier. They were all engaged in making the boat ready to depart by checking the rigging on the sail and readying the oars that would be used to propel them away from the dock and out into open water.

As he and Enzu were pushed on board, a man that had been engaged in conversation with a fisherman alongside another boat tied up further down the pier came forward. He was a stocky individual of middle years with a greying thatch of yellowing hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes. On the breast of his tunic was a badge embroidered with three scallop shells designating he was an official of the port.

“What’s amiss with that passenger that he needs to be treated so hardly?” he demanded of Nils when he reached where they were standing.

Teramo answered before the seaman could give a response. “Nothing to be concerned about,” he said blandly. “I am Arrigo Teramo, here on behalf of the Count di Marsi, to take this lad back to Italy to face punishment for thievery and attempted murder. Naturally, he does not want to go and was making yet another attempt to escape which my man, quite rightly, used force to forestall.”

The official gave the Italian a commiserative response to the explanation. “I am Peter Thorson, town bailiff here in Grimsby and, as such, am well aware of the recalcitrant behaviour of such miscreants, although this one seems young to have committed such serious crimes.”

Teramo’s answer was smooth and confiding. “Then I am sure you also know, Thorson, that appearances can be deceptive. This lad is as cunning as a rat and just as dangerous. So tricky is he that he managed to elude me for quite some time after I arrived in England. Fortunately, Sheriff Camville of Lincoln came to my aid and it is only due to his generous assistance that this villain was apprehended.”

“Sir Gerard is a very capable sheriff,” Thorson agreed and then, to Gianni’s dismay, wished Teramo well on his journey back to his homeland and bade him farewell before walking back down to the end of the pier and resuming his conversation with the fisherman he had been speaking with previously.

Gianni recognised Thorson’s name from the time he had written up notes of the investigation into the death of two prostitutes in Lincoln and, as part of that report, had recorded that the bailiff had given Bascot and Roget assistance in finding and questioning a suspect that lived in Grimsby. If only he could speak, Gianni thought miserably, he could have told Thorson of his association with the Templar and also Lady Nicolaa and, by doing so, would have every expectation of being believed when he revealed Teramo’s lies. But, as he could not, he sat helplessly watching the figure of the bailiff dwindle in the distance as the boat was rowed out to sea so the wind could catch the hoisted sail.

CHAPTER 37

Just as cog started on its journey, Bascot and Miles entered the town. Their mounts were foam-flecked and near to foundering as the knights urged them the short distance down to the harbour. Leaving the horses at the edge of the shingle beach, the pair ran down to the shore, searching among the boats for any sign of Gianni. He was nowhere to be seen.

“God’s blood,” Miles exclaimed, “we’ve missed them! Or do you suppose Teramo might still be in the town?” he added hopefully. “The tide’s just started on the flow; they may not have left yet.”

Bascot made no answer, busy scanning the horizon and looking more closely at a boat he could see nearing the entrance to the harbour. It was too far away for him to see the faces of the people on board, but the figure of the man standing alongside the mast was of the Italian’s height and build, and the cloak he had on was of the distinctive bright green colour he had seen Teramo wearing in Lincoln.

Suddenly, what appeared to be a shapeless bundle huddled against the bottom of the wall of the small wooden cabin in the prow moved and stood upright and then, raising a pair of bound wrists, began waving them to and fro in the direction of the shore. He only managed to do so once or twice before the figure alongside the mast leapt forward and shoved him back down onto the deck.

“There they are, Miles,” Bascot shouted. “That is Gianni. He must have seen us and was trying to attract our attention before the Italian stopped him. We must get a boat and give chase.”

Before Miles could respond, the Templar was racing down the beach towards the pier where several boats were tied, beside one of which Peter Thorson was still standing.

The bailiff noticed Bascot just as he reached the pier and also saw the look of urgency on the knight’s face. “Sir Bascot,” he exclaimed. “What do you here? And what is amiss?”

The Templar was relieved to see the man who had been so accommodating when he and Roget had previously come to the port and, wasting no time in long explanation, said, “The boat that just left, on board is a servant of Lady Nicolaa’s that has been abducted. We need to catch it. Can you get me a vessel?”

By this time Miles had caught up with the Templar, the Camville badge of two silver lions passant shining bright on the breast of his tunic and, recognising the badge Thorson wore on his own tunic as one of authority, added his plea to Bascot’s, promising that the sheriff of Lincoln would pay whatever cost was necessary to secure a boat to catch the outward bound cog.

“That damned whoreson of a liar,” Thorson exclaimed, referring to Teramo and then adding hastily. “I will get you a vessel immediately, and will stand the cost myself as penance for being such a fool.”

Swinging quickly away, he spoke to the fisherman by whom he was standing. “You heard the Templar, Anker. Will you hire out your boat for the chase?”

Anker, a tall raw-boned sailor with pale blonde hair and blue eyes that pronounced him a probable descendant of the Danish fisherman, Grim, who had given his name to the port nearly three centuries before, gave a willing assent.

“I can have her ready to go right quickly,” he added, gesturing to a boat alongside the pier and of about the same length as Nils’, but with a vee-shaped bottom, “but I’ve only two of my crew on board—the rest are in the alehouse and it will take too long to get them—and I’ll need a couple more to handle the oars to get out into the harbour.

Thorson glanced desperately around and called to two of a small group of seamen engaged in mending nets and caulking a couple of boats a short distance away. All of them had been listening closely, eyes alight with interest, to the conversation between the knights, the bailiff and Anker. “Knud, Snorri,” Thorson addressed the pair, “are you willing to help man Anker’s boat so we can catch this villain? I’ll pay you well for your time.”

The two sailors responded quickly with an ‘aye’ to the offer and, running forward, leapt onto the boat to take their places alongside the seamen already on board. As Anker settled himself at the tiller, Bascot and Miles jumped into the boat, Thorson right behind them.

“I’m coming as well,” Thorson growled as he settled his short bulky figure against the side of a small cabin, similar to the one on Nils’ boat, but its placement in the stern of the vessel. “I want to be there when we catch that bastard.”

All was ready within moments and, after unloosening the mooring rope that held the vessel to the pier, they scudded out into the harbour in pursuit of the cog.

**************

On Nils’ vessel, hope had resurged in Gianni. His young eyes had excellent long distance vision and, as he had been regretfully watching the diminishing figure of the bailiff, had seen the two knights and immediately recognized them. Praying they had seen his attempt to hail them, he had barely felt Teramo’s blow knocking him back onto the deck.

Nils had noticed Gianni’s wild gesture, as had one of the other seamen, but when they glanced back towards the beach saw only the two knights running towards the bailiff, and nothing seemingly of cause for alarm. Teramo, noting their inquisitive looks had shrugged his shoulders and said, “Pay the thief no attention. It is just another of his miserable attempts to effect an escape.”

Accepting the Italian’s explanation, the sailors returned to their task of manning the boat as Enzu, hunkered down beside Gianni, asked the lad in a whisper if he knew the knights on the beach. When Gianni replied with an eager nod and surreptitiously sketched a cross on his upper arm where Bascot wore the Order’s insignia, Enzu immediately understood. “Ah, one of them is the monk who is your friend,” he said softly, remembering the stern aspect of the one-eyed knight he had seen in Lady Nicolaa’s company, and how protective he had been of the lad beside him. “Then perhaps,” he added with a small smile, “Teramo will not find it so easy to kill you after all.”

*************

Anker’s vessel, with its vee-shaped hull, made good speed after Nils’ slower flat-bottomed cog and the gap between the two vessels began to narrow. There was still a strong wind, for they were sailing in the tail of the storm that had passed, but it was at their backs and aided their passage. As Anker expertly worked the rudder guiding his boat through the choppy waves, there flashed into Bascot’s mind a memory of the time he had spent as a prisoner aboard an Arab pirate ship after he had been captured by infidels while with a Templar contingent that had accompanied King Richard on crusade to the Holy Land. It was from that ship, during a storm, that he had made his escape from his captors and gone to Cyprus and, later, to Palermo where he had found Gianni. God grant that the outcome of this present venture on shipboard would be as successful.

By now, both vessels had left the confines of the harbour and were sailing up the eastern coat towards the inlet of the Humber where the port of Hull was situated. Above them, gulls and other seabirds were tossed by the wind in their hunt for prey in the turbulent water below. On the port side the flat marshlands of eastern Lincolnshire could be seen, and beyond them the low hills of the Wolds. There were ample places for Nils to pull his boat in and, when Anker’s vessel was near enough, Thorson went to the prow and hailed him in a stentorian voice that carried over the screeching cries of the birds overhead.

“Nils, heave to,” he cried. “That’s an order. Heave to now.”

Nils swiftly turned his head to look in the direction of the bailiff whereupon Thorson repeated the command, this time adding that Teramo was the criminal, not the lad he was holding captive.

Nils made an attempt to comply with the command, calling to his crewmen to downhaul the sail, but before any of the sailors could make a movement towards the rigging, the emissary shouted to his guards and they drew their swords.

“If you value your well-being and that of your crew, captain,” Teramo said to Nils harshly, “you will stay exactly where you are and keep this vessel going as fast as you can.”

Nils had no option but to obey and as Anker’s ship drew closer, Teramo saw that two of the crewmen on the vessel that was pursuing them were each holding one of the long-handled hooks with a rope attached to the handle that were used to haul in fishing nets, ready to grapple the cog so it could be boarded. At sight of Bascot and Miles standing behind them with drawn swords, the emissary grabbed the poniard at his belt and reached down and seized Gianni, holding the lad close to him and with the sharp edge of the knife pressing against his neck.

“If you try to board, Templar,” he called to Bascot, “the boy dies. Make your choice, tell the bailiff to let us sail on unhindered or forfeit his life.”

Anker’s sailors pulled back on the hooks and looked to Thorson, waiting for his instructions.

“Damn the man,” the bailiff swore. “What would you have us do, Sir Bascot?” he asked.

Fury engulfed Bascot at the Italian’s cowardly action, but he could not risk any harm coming to Gianni.

“Tell Anker to slacken the sail,” he said to Thorson dismally. “We have no other option.”

But just as the bailiff turned to give the order to Anker, Enzu, who had been huddled behind Teramo near the side of the little cabin in the prow, gave a great shout and leapt onto the emissary’s back, knocking both him and Gianni to the deck. As Teramo struggled to free himself of the clinging Sicilian, Gianni got to his feet and kicked the knife from the emissary’s hand and then turned to help Enzu. The blade skidded across the deck and landed at the feet of one of the crew, who quickly snatched it up. With a cry of warning to Nils and his shipmates, the seaman slashed the rigging line attached to the boom on the bottom of the sail, causing it to come loose and, in response, the course of the boat faltered and its speed lessened.

Nils’ immediately took action. Hauling the tiller over, he brought it closer to Anker’s boat and, in an instant, the seamen holding the hooks on the fishing boat had flung them over the side of the cog and secured it to their own vessel. In no more than a moment, Bascot and Miles leapt on board.

As the boat had listed, Gianni lost his hold on Teramo and fell to his knees. At the same time, Teramo and Enzu were thrown against the side rail of the boat and both began to topple over the side. The Sicilian immediately released his grip on the emissary and Gianni ran forward and managed to seize his wrist, hanging on to it with a strength he had not known he possessed as Teramo, hands flailing uselessly, gave a great scream of terror and fell into the water below.

The emissary’s two guards, caught unprepared for the sideways movement of the ship, stumbled and made an attempt to defend themselves against the two knights advancing towards them, but the loosened boom, swinging wildly, caught one of them on the side of the head and knocked him senseless. The other guard, unable to keep his balance and realising he would never prevail singlehanded against the armed knights, threw his weapon down and surrendered.

As two of Nils’ crewmen hastened to fasten the flapping sail, the others lent willing hands to help Gianni haul Enzu safely back on board and Bascot grabbed a rope to throw to Teramo. But there was no sign of the emissary; only the cap he had been wearing could be seen, tossing some little distance away on the dancing waves.

“We thinks he must o’ drowned, lord,” one of the crewmen on Anker’s boat called out. The sailors on the other vessel, from their vantage point, had been able to see the Italian more clearly as he fell into the water and had thrown him a rope, but the end of it was floating uselessly on top of the waves.

“Didn’t seem to see the line we threw him,” one of the other seamen added, “just went down a couple o’ times and then never come up no more.”

Bascot waved a hand in thanks for the information and then left the rail and walked over to where Gianni and Enzu were standing, both of them white-faced and trembling.

“You have my thanks,” he said to Enzu in Italian. “Your actions were brave and I will see you rewarded for your courage.”

The Sicilian’s chest swelled a little at the commendation and he responded by raising a hand to his forehead in deference and murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, lord,” in Sicilianu.

Bascot then spoke to Gianni. The lad was gazing at the spot on the rail where Teramo had fallen over, his eyes wide with shock.

“Are you hurt, Gianni?” Bascot asked, putting his arm around the lad’s shoulders and gripping him close for a moment. Gianni shook his head, and the Templar said softly, “You are to be commended as well. If it had not been for your quick action in taking hold of Enzu, he would also have been lost to the sea.”

For answer Gianni smiled at the Templar and, heartily conscious of his and Enzu’s narrow escape, sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

CHAPTER 38

Once the two guards were bound and secured, Bascot returned to Anders boat, taking Gianni with him, leaving Miles on the cog to keep watch over the prisoners. Enzu stayed on Nils’ boat as well, his face wreathed in a large smile as he regarded the plight of the two captured guards.

As the vessels turned and headed back to Grimsby harbour, the Templar told Thorson that Gianni was a mute and explained how he had found the lad in desperate straits when he had been in Palermo six years before and brought him back to England where, by dint of hard work, he had become a clerk in Lady Nicolaa’s scriptorium.

“So that’s why he didn’t tell me that Teramo had seized him when I was on the pier,” the bailiff exclaimed. “I saw him shake his head but, when he didn’t say anything, I thought the Italian was speaking the truth when he said the youngster was a criminal.”

He turned to Gianni. “I’m right sorry, lad. If I’d of known, I’d never have let you be taken on board Nils’ boat, and neither would Nils have done either.”

Gianni gave a small smile in acknowledgement of the bailiff’s apology and then the Templar went on to tell of how he and Gianni had devised a series of gestures to communicate with each other and that this had inspired Lady Nicolaa’s former secretarius to cause a book to be written that might help others with a similar affliction to Gianni’s or to those that were deaf.

“It was through this book—of which copies were made and one found its way to Italy—that Gianni’s existence in England became known to a noble there whose son, Umberto, and who is also a mute, had disappeared in Palermo, the city where I found Gianni some years before, and his hope that he might be the missing boy. After an appeal for assistance to Count di Marsi, a relative of the boy’s father, Teramo was sent to enquire if Gianni might be this lad.

“Gianni, however, could not recall any of the facts that were told to him about Umberto’s life before he disappeared and refused to acknowledge the claim, a fact which seemed to anger the emissary. But as he had no choice other than to accept Gianni’s decision, he made a semblance of leaving Lincoln, and then abducted Gianni just outside the town walls and brought him here with the seeming intention of taking him back to Italy.”

“What a tale,” Thorson exclaimed. “But what was the point of taking the lad at all? If Gianni continued to deny he was this missing Umberto once he was taken to the boy’s father, the abduction would be useless.”

“That is exactly what has us all puzzled,” the Templar replied and, turning to Gianni, asked him if he knew the reason for Teramo’s desperate measure.

Gianni shook his head and, lacking his wax tablet and stylus that he usually used to supplement his gestures for words that were difficult to describe with hand motions, such as names, pointed back to where Nils’ boat was sailing behind them, then sketched the letter ‘E’ on the palm of his hand to indicate Enzu, raised his hands to his lips to signify speech, then outlined the letter ‘T’ on his hand and with a swift motion, pointed to his chest and then drew a forefinger across his throat.

“May the Lord preserve us,” Thorson burst out. The meaning of Gianni’s gestures was plain, and as the bailiff was literate, he also understood the significance of the letters, but so shocking were their implication that he asked Gianni to confirm his assumption. “Do you mean to tell me, lad, that the little fellow who jumped on Teramo told you that the emissary intended to kill you?”

Gianni nodded and, when Bascot asked if Enzu had told him the reason for such an act, Gianni shook his head, following it with a chopping motion of one forefinger on another, raised his hand to his mouth again, and then cupped his ear.

This time Thorson did not comprehend the lad’s gestures and Bascot translated for him. “He is telling us that Enzu did not have an opportunity to say more lest he be overheard,” and Gianni nodded in affirmation.

Both the Templar and Thorson looked back to the boat in which Enzu was a passenger. “Well,” the bailiff remarked, “Now that Teramo is most likely drowned, and his guards captured, there’ll be nothing to stop him telling us the rest of the tale.”

“Just so,” Bascot agreed, his face filled with fury at the thought of the terror Gianni had suffered at the hands of the emissary.

*************

When the two boats returned to the harbour, there was a small crowd of seamen on shore to greet them, all having learned, from the sailors on the pier that had overheard part of the conversation between Thorson and the two knights, that Anders boat had gone off, with the bailiff and knights on board, in chase of Nils’ cog.

Ander’s boat was the first to arrive, with Nils’ not far behind and, as they all alighted from the vessels, including the two bound guards, they were besieged with questions as to what had passed. Thorson held up his hand.

“You’ll all know right soon enough,” he proclaimed in his booming voice, which carried out over the heads of his listeners, “if you’ll just have the patience to wait until we get these prisoners into a cell, you can join Anders and Nils for a sup of ale—and I’m paying for the first flagon—and they’ll tell you everything that happened.”

Welcome nods greeted his pronouncement and, after the guards had been marched off in the direction of the town gaol, Thorson reached in his scrip and handed Anders a handful of coins, telling him that there would be a further payment for the service he and his crew had rendered that day.

The mood of the crowd was jubilant and, with many a hearty slap on Anders and Nils’ backs, they departed to the nearest alehouse to hear the tale of the sea chase they had watched from the harbour. Once all were gone, Thorson invited Bascot and Miles, along with Gianni and Enzu, to come to his home and share a meal and a flagon of wine at his table.

Knowing of the bailiff’s generous hospitality from his previous visit to Grimsby, Bascot accepted with alacrity, his heart lifting at the sight of the eager expression on Gianni’s countenance at the mention of food. He knew it would take time for the lad’s former confidence to return, but was certain that enjoyment of a good meal in the company of the genial Thorson and his wife would help him on his way.

CHAPTER 39

Once they were all seated at a table in the small hall of Thorson’s home and bowls of a tasty fish stew and fresh bread had been set in front of them by the bailiff’s plump wife, Bascot was relieved to see the colour return to the Gianni’s face.

After the meal was finished—Gianni and Enzu more than replete as Mistress Thorson had ensured their bowls were kept filled with stew until they could not manage to eat another mouthful—the bailiff topped up all their wine cups and leaned back in his seat.

“Had it not been for the danger you were in, lad,” he said to Gianni, “I would have enjoyed that chase today. I miss the seafaring days of my youth and this venture has made me feel young again.”

In response, Gianni grimaced and made a couple of gestures. “He says to tell you, Thorson,” Bascot translated, “that, unlike you, he hopes never to set foot on a boat again.”

As everyone, except Enzu—who had not understood the exchange—rocked with laughter, the Templar spoke seriously to the Sicilian in Italian.

“Gianni had informed us, Enzu, that you told him Teramo was going to kill him, but did not have an opportunity to tell him why. What was his purpose?”

Enzu broke into a spate of rapid Sicilianu that the Templar, not overly familiar with the language, failed to completely comprehend, even though Gianni tried to keep pace with gestures of translation. Finally, losing the thread of the tale, Bascot gently held up his hand to stem the flow of words and turned to the bailiff.

“I do not have enough facility with the Sicilian dialect to catch more than the gist of what he is saying but, as you can see, Gianni is fully conversant with it for he lived in Sicily for the first few years of his life and knows it well. If you would kindly provide parchment, ink and a quill, I think it will be easier if Gianni writes all that Enzu is telling us down in English and then I can read it out for you to hear. Such a written record will also be useful for Sheriff Camville and Lady Nicolaa when we return to Lincoln, as an aid in forwarding the details of the crime to King John.”

The bailiff immediately brought the requested writing materials, which he laid in front of Gianni. Then, after a brief instruction from Bascot to Enzu to repeat what he had said, but more slowly this time so Gianni had time to write down a translation, the Sicilian again began to speak. The Templar sat silently beside Gianni, reading the words as he penned them.

While this was being done, Thorson explained in quiet tones to his wife all that the Templar had told him about the background of the dangerous situation in which Gianni had found himself, with Miles adding a few extra details that Bascot had not mentioned. Mistress Thornton’s face grew grave as she listened and, when her husband had finished, murmured a prayer of thanks that Gianni had been rescued.

When Enzu finally fell silent, Gianni passed the parchment on which he had written down the Sicilian’s words to Bascot. After reading it through again the Templar turned to the rest of the company and, as they looked at him expectantly, related what it conveyed.

“First of all,” he began, “Enzu says that he does not have any first-hand knowledge of how the possibility that Gianni might be Umberto came about, for he was only told afterwards of the book that was written in Lincoln and the manner in which it came to the attention of Count di Marsi. Of all of this, he knew nothing, he says, until a letter arrived in Sicily for his master, Marco Ferraro, from Umberto’s father, Rinaldo di Marsi.”

Bascot glanced at the bailiff. “Marco Ferraro is the friend of Rinaldo’s who lives in Palermo and owns the house where the fire occurred during which Umberto went missing.”

At Thorson and his wife’s nods of understanding, the Templar continued. “This letter explained why it was thought there was a possibility that a boy in England might be Rinaldo’s missing son and told him that arrangements were being made for an emissary to be sent to England to confirm or deny his identity. The letter went on to say that since Rinaldo’s bones were old and his health failing, he did not feel that he was capable of making the long journey and it had been decided that someone who was familiar with Umberto’s features should be sent in the emissary’s company in his stead. After due consideration, Rinaldo had added that he believed it would be best, and if Ferraro would give his permission, to send Enzu, as not only would he be able to recognise the boy, but also he had been present at the time of the fire during which Umberto had vanished and would be able to confirm the details of his disappearance with the lad Rinaldo hoped was his son.

“Ferraro was only too eager to help and, deciding he would accompany Enzu on the journey to the count’s court in order to learn more about the information that had been gathered about the boy in England, they left Palermo straight away and travelled to di Marsi’s fortified manor house in Celano on the mainland of Italy. When they arrived, they were immediately ushered into the presence of Rinaldo and the count. Umberto’s father was very excited, Enzu says, at the thought that his son had finally been found, but the count was more sceptical and cautioned his cousin not to get his hopes too high until it was learned whether or not the mission had been successful. Enzu’s master, Ferraro, was also doubtful, he says, as was Enzu himself. In accord with the count, they both felt it unlikely that a young boy of such a tender age and, in addition, one who could not speak, could have survived the ravages of the fire and that even if he had only run away in terror and become lost, it would have been too difficult for him to sustain himself in a place where he was a stranger and among people with whom, because of his muteness, he was unable to communicate.

“Nonetheless, Rinaldo claimed it was possible; and that if, by some chance, his son had escaped the fire, he may have found refuge among the other waifs that haunted the dock, just as Gianni was said to have done, and thereby managed to beg enough alms to keep him fed until the Templar found him and took him to England. ‘Even if this young man in England is not my Umberto,’ Rinaldo had added, ‘I will never give up hope that my son will be found, never, for I am certain he is still alive.’ After that statement, he had turned to the count and said, ‘And even if I should die before the happy day of Umberto’s return, cousin, you will keep your promise to safeguard my estates until they can be restored to him, will you not?’

Here Bascot lowered the piece of parchment and spoke to the others. “And it is this intention of Rinaldo’s that his wealth should be preserved for his son, even beyond his own death, that is at the heart of Teramo’s intent to murder Gianni.”

CHAPTER 40

“I should explain here,” the Templar continued, “that Rinaldo’s second wife is a woman named Cettina Sclafani—a fact that Teramo attempted to keep hidden from Lady Nicolaa by not revealing the identity of the only person in England who was aware of it, a priest named Father Timothy. But, through the agency of Bishop William of Lincoln, it was discovered who he was and that he was in Nottingham, and when Lady Nicolaa went there and spoke to him, he gave her Cettina’s name. I was then told by a Templar brother stationed in Sicily some years ago that, at the time he was on the island, certain members of the Sclafani family had a reputation for wickedness. As Enzu’s story confirms, this evil inheritance has been passed on to Cettina, which is why the emissary wished her identity to remain unknown. None of those who serve Rinaldo, or the count, have any liking for her, and this is due solely to her manner towards them, which is always contemptuous and often cruel. Although beautiful, she has, like some of her antecedents, the heart of a devil, taking pleasure in inflicting punishments for the slightest misdemeanour and even treating her husband, who is besotted with her loveliness, with barely concealed contempt.

“While Enzu was waiting at Count di Marsi’s court to accompany the embassy,” Bascot continued, “he learned through servants’ gossip that Cettina had secretly taken Teramo for a lover. It was also rumoured that Rinaldo’s insistence on believing Umberto would reappear one day enraged Cettina, for even if her husband died before the boy was found, she would still be unable to access Rinaldo’s wealth, since it would be left in the custody of the count for the hopeful day of his son’s return. She had not borne her husband any living child to replace Umberto as his heir and, as Rinaldo’s widow, all she would receive on his death would be a small income that would keep her in reduced circumstances. Her only method of displacing this arrangement, and making herself Rinaldo’s heir instead, was to give her husband certain proof that Umberto was truly deceased. And such was his insistence that the boy was still alive, this could only be done through the presentation of his dead body.”

“I begin to see the reason for Teramo’s abduction of Gianni now,” Miles exclaimed. “The lad was to be that corpse, was he not, in order to convince Umberto’s father that his son was no longer alive?”

“He was,” Bascot replied. “The years were passing, Rinaldo was getting old, and her hope of bearing him a child had vanished. Cettina was getting desperate to resolve the situation and I truly believe that if she could have used any boy for her purpose, she would have plucked an orphan off of the street and slain him to present to her husband as his missing son. But what proof would she have had that such a child was truly Umberto? She needed a lad that Rinaldo was already predisposed to believe might be his offspring, and Gianni filled all the requirements. He was to be taken back to Italy and slain when they neared Count di Marsi’s residence where Rinaldo would be awaiting their return, his face battered so badly it would be impossible to determine, by his features, whether or not he was Umberto. Then the corpse would be taken to Rinaldo, who would be told that the boy—who, it would be said, had recalled so much of his father and the fire in which he disappeared that there could be no doubt he had been Umberto—had tumbled off his horse in a rocky defile as they crossed the mountains and fallen to his death, his visage mutilated in the accident.

“But Enzu was not aware of any of this when he left with the emissary on the journey to England,” Bascot went. “With Teramo and his guards, he travelled on horseback northwest from Celano to Milan, crossed the mountains and over the many miles to Bruges in Flanders, where passage was taken on a ship across the Narrow Sea to London. During the entire journey, the emissary paid Enzu scant attention, treating him in a dismissive manner and conversing only with his guards. But once they were on English soil, the emissary’s attitude changed. One night, while they were still in London, and Teramo had, by means of presenting Count di Marsi’s letter to King John, obtained royal permission to go to Lincoln, he took Enzu aside and told him that, before they left Italy, the count had given private instructions in which the Sicilian was involved. In a few words and with a brusque manner, he said to Enzu that di Marsi had ordered that even if the lad in Lincoln was not Umberto, Enzu was to claim that he was. When Enzu tried to protest that this was in direct opposition to the instructions he had been given by the count, the emissary cut him short, saying the purpose of the order was to ensure that Rinaldo, elderly and ailing, and so hopeful their mission would bring his son home to him, should not be disappointed. And there was always the hope, he added, that Rinaldo, whose faculties were dimmed from his illness, would believe the boy to be truly his son, even if he was not. Count di Marsi felt, Teramo claimed, that such a falsehood would, in reality, be a kindness, for another failure to find the boy might inspire in Rinaldo a melancholy that would exacerbate his frailty and could even cause his death.

“Enzu, only a servant, and fearing Teramo’s wrath if he did not do as he was told, had no choice but to say he would comply with the order, even though he did not believe that the count, a man known for his integrity, and one, moreover, who had counselled Rinaldo not to anticipate that Gianni was his son until it had been proved as a certainty, would perpetrate such duplicity. In an attempt to learn the truth of the matter Enzu did his best to listen surreptitiously to the conversations between the emissary and his guards as they took the road to Lincoln to see if he could discover the reason for Teramo’s betrayal.

Here Bascot interjected some information about the emissary’s two henchmen. “They were both mercenaries, Enzu says, and of Teramo’s own hiring. The count had intended to send two of his own soldiers but had been persuaded by Teramo that he would be better served by two men of whom he knew, ones who had both made more than one trip to England and were familiar with the language. This was a lie, Enzu states, for the soldiers knew only a few words of English, and these were taught to them by the emissary while they were on the journey.”

“Ha!” Thorson exclaimed. “That alone was a certain indication of Teramo’s treachery.”

“Just so,” Miles agreed, recalling to them that Gerard Camville had thought the inclusion of such rough soldiers in the emissary’s escort had been an unlikely choice for the count to make.

“It was during the journey to Lincoln,” Bascot went on, “when they had stopped for the night and obtained lodgings at a wayside alehouse, that Enzu heard, with great disquiet, a conversation between the two guards. Teramo had hired a chamber for himself, Enzu says, but he and the soldiers were to bed down in a space in the attic at the top of the alehouse and, after Enzu had rolled himself up in his cloak on a pallet on the floor, the guards began to drink and talk together. Believing him asleep, their conversation grew careless, and they began to speak of a murder Teramo had hired them to commit when they returned to Italy, saying the best place to make the killing appear an accident was a mountainous pass just south of Celano, the small town where the count’s fortified manor house was located. ‘Easy enough to say the lad took a tumble there,’ one of them said, ‘and fell to his death below.’ ‘Also explain why he was unrecognisable, too,’ the other replied ‘for it could be said that his face had been bashed in by rocks when he fell.’

“Enzu said his blood ran cold at the words and a great fear descended on him as the guards continued their drunken conversation, saying there would be no fear of the real missing boy appearing after the lad’s corpse was produced since he was already dead, and no one would suspect his body had been supplanted by that of a stranger.

“When he added this new information to Teramo’s order that he was to recognise Gianni as Umberto even if he was not, coupled with his knowledge of Rinaldo’s insistence that his son was still alive, Enzu realised the emissary’s intent. Once Rinaldo was presented with Gianni’s body as incontrovertible proof that Umberto was dead, he would change his will and leave all of his wealth to his wife, Cettina Sclafani. As she and Teramo were lovers, it was quite likely she—immediately recognizing when she was told of the possibility that Gianni might be the missing boy of the manner in which she could utilize his corpse for her evil scheme—had formulated the plan and beguiled the emissary into colluding with her. His reward might have been a moneyed payment, or even a promise of marriage once Rinaldo was dead—which event, Enzu surmises, would have come to pass not very long after he had changed his will, for it would have been a simple matter to kill an ailing old man without suspicion.

“Enzu did not know what to do. He was in a foreign country where no one spoke his language and therefore, after they reached Lincoln, was unable to tell anyone of Teramo’s falseness for not only would no one understand him, but he was constantly kept in the company of the emissary or one of the guards. He had a glimmer of hope that the plan would be foiled when Gianni refused to return to Italy, but instead Teramo became enraged, for he had not expected that any young man who held the lowly status of a clerk would refuse a chance to gain the riches he was being offered, even if he knew them unmerited.”

“And that is why he seized Gianni,” Miles said.

“Yes. Teramo needed his corpse to simulate Umberto’s, and even if it was realised later here in Lincoln that he had taken Gianni back to Italy, any enquiry from England that might have been sent there could easily be answered by Teramo stating he truly believed Gianni to be Rinaldo’s son and had abducted him for his own good, as he told the man-at-arms from the Lincoln garrison who aided him in Gianni’s capture. Enzu, being the only one able to gainsay the plot, is certain that he would never have survived the trip home either, but would die in the same ‘accident’ as Gianni while traversing the mountains.

“As the days passed, Enzu grew desperate. He knew that once they were away from Lincoln, it would only be a matter of time before they were on a boat and on their way to Italy, but all he could do, he says, was bide his time and pray to the Good Lord to help him.”

“Which He did when He gave Enzu the opportunity to attack Teramo on Nils’ cog,” Thorson declared.

“It must have been Teramo who told the guards that the boy Gianni was to replace was already dead,” Miles ventured. “Did Enzu ever learn how he died?”

“Here we go into the realm of supposition, but it is Enzu’s belief, and I concur, that Umberto was killed by Cettina on the night of the fire when he supposedly disappeared. The fire started in a room where they had all been dining earlier and Enzu saw her coming from the door that led into that chamber late on that same evening after all of the servants were abed—he was late retiring due to having stayed up to cleanse some spots from Umberto’s tunic—and just before the alarm was raised. Once everyone was astir and panicking about the fire, it would have been an easy matter for her to step through the open casement in the bedchamber where the boy had been left by his nurse while she went to see the cause of the alarm, lead him out and murder him—being mute he would have been unable to make any outcry when she attacked him—and then hidden his corpse in a place where it has never been found. Even as a young new bride, I believe she intended either herself or one of the children she hoped to bear Rinaldo to be heir to her husband’s fortune, and was not going to allow a son by his first marriage to stand in her way. The only flaws in her plan were that she failed to anticipate that not only would she never bear her husband a child, but also that Rinaldo would never accept that his son was dead and continue to keep him as his heir.”

“She is truly Satan’s handmaiden,” Mistress Thorson exclaimed. “Only Beelzebub could inspire such wickedness.”

“I agree, mistress,” Bascot replied. “She is an ardent servant of the devil, as has been said of some of her antecedents.”

Miles posed a question to the bailiff. “Is it likely Teramo’s body will be washed ashore?” he asked.

Thorson shook his head. “The tides hereabouts can be fractious. It is possible he may wash up somewhere, but it will be far up the coast, I think, and not anywhere near Grimsby. But wherever it is found, it is almost a certainty that, by that time, the pounding of the sea, and the scavenging of fish and gulls, will have ravaged his corpse beyond recognition. A fitting end for that bastard, since that it what he intended for Gianni.”

CHAPTER 41

Lincoln

Bascot and the others accepted Thorson’s generous offer of beds for the night and, as they would not be returning to Lincoln until the next day, the Templar penned a message to be taken right away to Lady Nicolaa by one of the bailiff’s men to inform her that Gianni was safe and that he and Miles would bring him back on the morrow. It was also arranged with Thorson that he would keep Teramo’s two guards secure until Gerard Camville could send an armed escort to bring them back to Lincoln.

After spending a pleasant evening and a comfortable night on soft pallets in Thorson’s home, they all set out the following morning on the Lincoln road. Bascot and Miles rode with a light heart for the success of Gianni’s rescue and the lad himself, thanks to the generous helpings of food Mistress Thorson had provided, and the soothing salve she had applied to his split lip, was much recovered from his ordeal. And Enzu, no longer under Teramo’s threat, laughed and chattered to Gianni in Sicilianu as they rode, his demeanour relaxed and happy. Due to their shared peril, a bond of comradeship had been forged between the pair that they were both enjoying.

When they arrived at Lincoln some few hours later, and rode through the gate into the ward, a crowd of servants came running to greet Gianni and tell him how pleased they were to learn he was safe. Ernulf strode forward and roughly clapped him on the shoulder in affection, and Roget, waiting there too, told him with tears in his eyes that he was relieved that his tres bon ami and not come to any injury at the hands of that cochon Teramo. Gianni blushed a deep red at the unexpected display of affection and he gave them all a warm smile of gratitude.

In the keep, after giving Gianni an effusive welcome, Eudo told Bascot that Gerard Camville and Lady Nicolaa were awaiting them in the solar and they were to go straight there as soon as they arrived.

In the airy chamber, taking Enzu with them, they also found Lambert with the castellan and her husband and, after all had given Gianni a hearty greeting, the secretarius seated himself on a stool and readied his wax tablet for note-taking. “Today, Gianni,” he said, “it is I who will record the details of your report so you may have a well deserved rest. But do not think,” he added with a mock sternness belied by an affectionate grin, “that you will be able to do the same tomorrow. Much work has piled up in your absence and is awaiting your attention in the scriptorium.”

Gianni clapped his hands together and immediately signed a response to Lambert, saying nothing would please him more than to return to work.

Nicolaa and her husband listened with great attention as Bascot explained how, when they reached Grimsby, they had discovered that Gianni had been taken onto a boat, and that, with Bailiff Thorson’s assistance, he had been rescued, ending with the details of Enzu’s attack on Teramo and his subsequent drowning.

Throughout it all the Sicilian, who had given both the castellan and Gerard Camville bows of deference upon entering the chamber, smiled and nodded, although he understood not one word that the Templar spoke.

“You are to be commended, Enzu,” Nicolaa said when the tale finished. When her praise was translated by Bascot, the Sicilian’s chest swelled with pride and his grin grew greater.

“I have here a report that Gianni wrote of Enzu’s explanation of Teramo’s intent,” Bascot said, ‘in which he gives the details of how he discovered the emissary was false to his mission, and so to the count, and the reason for Gianni’s abduction,” Bascot explained, handing Lady Nicolaa the pieces of parchment the lad had written in Grimsby.

The castellan scanned it quickly and passed it to her husband who, after reading it, muttered an oath. “Drowning was too easy a death for that cowson,” he declared. “Our only consolation is that he is now burning in the flames of hell.”

“I have told Bailiff Thorson you would send an armed escort to bring Teramo’s two guards back to Lincoln, lord,” the Templar told him.

“I will do so,” the sheriff promised, “but, as they are not English and their presence here was sanctioned by the king, he will need to be involved in meting out justice to them.”

“Since it says in this report,” Nicolaa interjected, tapping the piece of parchment her husband had handed back to her, “that Enzu believes they may have some knowledge of how Rinaldo’s son, Umberto, met his death, they should be questioned before John is contacted, so as to send him as complete a compilation of this tragedy as it is possible.”

Camville grunted an assent, and added, “As good a reason as any to question them, and question them I will, and hardly.”

The castellan then spoke to Bascot regarding the Sicilian. “Will you please inform Enzu that until John’s reply is received, and arrangements are made for him to return to Italy, it will give us great pleasure to offer him hospitality here in the castle. I will also ensure that he receives the reward you promised him for his courageous action and will have a purse of silver in the amount of five pounds made ready for him to take with him when he leaves. ”

When Enzu was told what Nicolaa had said, he gave another great grin and surprised them all by repeating, in a halting and heavily accented fashion, the common expression of gratitude he had heard spoken during his time in England. “Thank you, dama,” he said and then beamed with pleasure, not only for the castellan’s largesse, but for his verbal accomplishment.

*************

The two guards were brought back to Lincoln the very next day and, with Bascot’s help in translating his words into the Italian language, Gerard Camville interrogated them as to their knowledge of Teramo’s plot. As they regarded the sheriff’s massive bulk and the glowering expression on his face, the two men quickly responded with all they knew, for they correctly foresaw they would be tortured if they did not comply. Their answers confirmed what Enzu had suspected as regards Teramo’s intent to kill Gianni when they arrived back in Italy so he could claim his body to be that of Umberto, and that when Gianni had refused to willingly accompany the emissary back to his homeland, he had decided to take him by force.

They also corroborated the suspicion that the plan to use Gianni’s body as a replacement for the missing boy’s corpse had been hatched by Rinaldo’s wife, Cettina. “She is a very beautiful woman,” one of the guards said, “and our master was inflamed with desire for her. He would have done anything she asked to retain her favour, even murder.”

Asked about their statement that the boy for whom proof of death was required was already dead, they told of information imparted by Teramo when he hired them, which they had afterwards linked up with facts gathered from some gossiping servants in Rinaldo’s household. They were certain Cettina had been responsible for Umberto’s death at the time of the occurrence of the fire in the house in Palermo, and then told all they had learned of how she had accomplished it.

Neither Camville nor the Templar was surprised by what they heard, but the extent of Cettina Sclafani’s wickedness was nonetheless shocking. As they walked back to the keep to tell Nicolaa de la Haye the result of the interrogation so she could add the details in her letter to the king, Camville gave vent to his fury “Damn John and his hasty assent to this reckless embassy. I expect he will be wrathful for having to give Count di Marsi the news of his bastard son’s demise, even if it was justified, and will find a way to lay the blame for it on my shoulders.”

“I think not, lord,” Bascot said. “I believe, rather, that he will be pleased with the outcome.”

“How so?” the sheriff asked in surprise.

The Templar related the information he had received from the London branch of the Order, and how King John had been hoping to appease the Pope, with whom he was in disfavour due to his causing delay in the election of bishops, by readily acceding to Count di Marsi’s request.

“The count has some prelates in his family—one of them a cardinal—who wield a great deal of influence in the Holy See and, if they could be persuaded to be so inclined, could make a plea for leniency on John’s behalf to Pope Innocent. So you see, while he hoped to curry favour with the di Marsi family by allowing Teramo ready access to Gianni, he will gain much more gratitude from them by taking credit for discovery of how Umberto—who was also a member of their family and, unlike Teramo, legitimately born—was killed, and the identity of the persons responsible. I think he will be pleased rather than otherwise.”

Camville gave a short bark of laughter. “Ha, de Marins, I believe you are right. John’s scheming nature will not be averse to such a machination, God rot him.”

*************

While the king’s response to Nicolaa’s letter was awaited, the sheriff brought Bracel and Gode to trial for the murder of Edward Tisser. The trial was well attended, especially by those associated with the cloth trade in Lincoln. Many of the older ones remembered both Gilbert and John Tisser, and also John’s wife, Emmaline. Sentiments were mixed as the reason Bracel had conspired with Gode to murder Edward was bruited abroad, and even though Edward had been well liked, there was some sympathy for the clerk, with many holding the opinion that his only guilt was that of righting an old injustice.

The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Bracel readily admitted he had devised the murder and, as far as Gode was concerned, since he had been arrested as he was accepting payment for the crime his guilt was already established. Both were sentenced to death by hanging but, in an unusual step, and to forestall any demand for leniency for the clerk, the sheriff decreed there should be no witnesses other than his own household knights and men-at-arms when the punishment was meted out.

Mary Tisser did not attend the trial and neither did Adam, but Gerard Camville, when asked for permission by the murder victim’s young brother, allowed him to speak to Bracel on the eve of his execution.

“I do not know whether to hate you for conspiring to kill Edward,” Adam said to the clerk when they were alone in the cell in which Bracel was incarcerated, “or to be grateful to you for ensuring that my mother’s provision for my future will finally be carried out.”

“Hate me if you must,” Bracel replied, “but I deserve no thanks for contriving your brother’s death. I arranged his murder, not for your sake, but due to the love and respect I have always had your mother. When I discovered that not only had she been cruelly treated by Edward’s father, but her wishes dismissed by Edward himself, I vowed that I would extract vengeance on her behalf. My punishment is a just one, and once my death is accomplished, there will be no more penance due for the old sins in your family. Try to put all it behind you now and concentrate on the future.”

The next morning in the bail, Bracel went to his death quietly, while Gode screamed with terror as the noose was slipped over his head.

EPILOGUE

Three months later

Miles was relieved to be back in England. After he and a young squire, Alan d’Arbre, who had accompanied him on the journey to Italy, had disembarked from the royal vessel on which they had returned, they both stood for a moment, enjoying the coolness of the temperature in the land that was home. Their trip to take the two captive guards and Enzu back to Italy, and apprise Rinaldo and Count di Marsi of Teramo’s treachery, and his subsequent death, had been a long one and they were glad to mount their horses for the final stretch of the journey back to Lincoln.

As they rode, the knight thought of the day when King John’s response to Lady Nicolaa’s letter had arrived. Miles had been present when the castellan opened it and read out the contents to her husband.

Camville had grunted in disgust. “John has acted just as de Marins expected,” the sheriff said. “I have no doubt he has found a way to reap benefit from this misery.”

And so it had proved. The king had decreed that the two prisoners would be taken back to Italy on one of his royal vessels, complete with a guard of his own men to escort them, and that Miles was to go along with Enzu in order to give his witness to the affair.

When Miles, Alan and the Sicilian arrived at the port of Dover where John’s ship was waiting, the knight handed the two guards over to the king’s men-at-arms before going on board. Awaiting them on the ship was an English priest, Father William, who had been sent by the king to accompany them on the journey. The prelate was fluent in the Italian language and, Miles thought, sly-faced, and so it came as no surprise to the knight when the prelate said he carried a missive from the king that was to be delivered to the count’s close relative, Cardinal Lupo di Marsi, in Rome, on their way to his kinsman’s residence. It did not take a great leap of imagination for Miles to surmise that this letter would give an account prejudiced in John’s favour of how Teramo’s perfidy had been discovered, and his intended plot foiled, in the hope it would result in the cardinal’s support in the king’s aspiration to be reconciled with Pope Innocent.

Swallowing his distaste, Miles kept the priest at a distance on the outward bound journey, spending his time in the company of his squire, Enzu and the royal men-at-arms. The weather was fair and the voyage went smoothly until the island of Sicily hove into view on the horizon. There they were to stop to gather further evidence by confirming the mercenary guards’ story of Cettina Sclafani’s involvement in Umberto’s death.

As the king’s ship entered the port of Palermo, Miles recalled the tale the guards had told Gerard Camville. They had said that when Teramo hired them, he had told them that the boy in England was to be killed so as to later be identified as Umberto, who was already dead. “He is long gone,” they reported the emissary as saying, “hidden in a place where he will never be found.”

Uncertain of Teramo’s trustworthiness lest he was intending to gull them into being blamed for Umberto’s murder, they asked for further details of his demise as proof they would not be deemed culpable for a crime of which they were innocent, and the emissary told them that the boy had been thrown into a disused well shaft in the house where he was staying at the time of his disappearance.

When the guards asked Teramo how he knew this, he had replied that he had been told it was so by the person who despatched the boy, his lover, Cettina Sclafani. “She is a bold one,” he had added admiringly. “She even helped to search the undercroft where the well shaft is located, and never betrayed, by word or look, that he was but a scant few feet away. You need have no fear of reprisal for his death and nor do I. She committed the murder alone, and none of us have ever been in the vicinity of the place where his body lies hidden.”

After the ship docked in Palermo, Miles and his squire went with Enzu and Father William to the house where Rinaldo, Cettina and Umberto had been staying on the night of the fire. Enzu’s master, Marco Ferrero, a portly and genial man, was more than willing to allow them to search the undercroft where the old well shaft was situated. After removing the wooden cover that, Ferrero said, was always in place for the sake of safety, he sent one of his menservants down on a rope to explore the bottom. When the servant climbed back up, he confirmed that there were indeed the remains of a young child down there, and from the style of the tatters of clothing remaining on the corpse, it appeared to have been a boy. The news that the body of his friend’s missing son had, during all of the years they had been searching for him, literally lain just below his feet, filled Ferraro with great sorrow.

“The poor child,” he had said with sadness. “If he didn’t mercifully die when he fell, his muteness would have rendered him incapable of calling out to us when we were looking for him. It is quite possible he lay there for days in agony before he expired from thirst.”

After carefully bringing up Umberto’s corpse from the well shaft, further evidence of Cettina’s guilt was found. Entangled in the boy’s desiccated fingers was a costly gold necklace that Ferrero said he recognised as one he had seen her wearing while visiting his home. After removing this vital piece of evidence and giving it to Father William, Umberto’s remains were entrusted into the care of Ferraro’s own priest until Rinaldo should give instructions for his burial, and then they all boarded the king’s ship to set sail for Salerno. Once they disembarked at the port, they had then ridden the short distance to Rome.

There Father William contacted Cardinal Lupo di Marsi who, it was found, was the count’s nephew, and gave him John’s letter. It was not until a short time later, after the cardinal had decided to accompany them to his uncle’s residence in Celano, and during a conversation that Miles had with him, that the contents of the letter were revealed to the knight.

“Your king is to be commended,” Cardinal Lupo had said, “for warning your lord, Gerard Camville, to be on his guard about the honesty of my uncle’s bastard son. If it had not been for that insight, my family may have been taken in by Teramo and Cettina’s plot.”

Miles had not disillusioned the cardinal by telling him John had lied outrageously; it was what he and Camville had expected and he did not wish to be the instrument whereby the king’s wrath, if he learned of the exposure, as he most certainly bound to do, would fall on the heads of the sheriff and Lady Nicolaa.

The journey to Celano was uneventful and Miles enjoyed the cardinal’s company throughout. He was a tall, fair-complected man of about fifty years of age, with intelligent grey eyes and a genial manner.  When they arrived at the complex of buildings that comprised the count’s residence, it was to find it was set atop a hill overlooking the town and Lake Fucino. As they rode up the hill towards the magnificent manor, the blazing sun glared bright on the red clay roof tiles of the main building and those on some of the much smaller houses in the village. Groves of olive trees and a small vineyard had been planted in the surrounding countryside as well as fields of ripened grain—barley, millet and wheat—all, at this season, waiting to be harvested. It was a beautiful scene and a peaceful one, shortly to be marred by a sordid tale of treachery and secret murder.

Once admitted inside, the cardinal told his uncle, the count, a man of imposing visage and manner, the whole story of Teramo’s betrayal and death, along with the fact that Rinaldo’s wife had been involved not only in the recent crime, but in the death of her husband’s missing son.

When Cettina was brought before Count di Marsi in the marble floored hall where he held his court, Miles had listened to Father William’s whispered translation of the charge that was read out, and took stock of the woman who had committed the heinous crimes. She was, indeed, very beautiful, with a lush figure that radiated sensuality, and possessed of long glossy raven black hair that fell down her back from beneath the shimmering lace head rail she wore. But it was her eyes that were the most beguiling. Underneath delicately shaped brows of the same dark colour as her hair, they were almond-shaped and of a sea-green colour, gleaming with a promise of delights that a man would find almost impossible to ignore, even if he knew the enjoyment of them would be dangerous. It could not be wondered that Teramo had found her irresistible; there were few men who would not.

She had stood in a brazen attitude of indifference as the count, his face full of grief for the death of his illegitimate son and anger at the woman who had been the cause of it, had recited the charges against her in a cold voice. Finally he had held up the necklace and demanded that she confirm it belonged to her.

“Si,” she had answered boldly, and with not a shred of remorse. “That moronic boy grabbed it as I pushed him down the shaft and I didn’t notice he had it in his hand until it was too late to retrieve it.”

A gasp of horror rose up from the company at her brazenness; it was as though she felt herself above judgement. When Father William hurriedly whispered the words she had said to Miles, the knight had felt a stab of revulsion deep in his vitals. How, he wondered, could such wickedness be contained in so beautiful a vessel? She was truly, as Mistress Thorson in Grimsby had said, a spawn of the devil.

When the count asked why she had committed such an abominable act, she displayed the first sign of emotion, and it was that of anger. “He was an imbecile; he could not speak and had not the intelligence of a goat. I did not intend that I should be left at the mercy of such an abomination when his father died, nor was I going to allow him to live and displace me or any children I might have. And if my idiot husband had accepted he was dead, my plan would have been successful.”

Here she gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. ‘Umberto deserved to die and should have done so when he was born,” she added defiantly. “He was a mistake made by God; I merely corrected the error.”

Throughout it all her husband, Rinaldo, his elderly figure sagging with the weight of shock and despair, listened in silent misery as the count pronounced sentence.

“Your penalty will fit the crime,” Berardo di Marsi had said to Cettina heavily. “A deep shaft will be dug in a stony patch of ground on the hillside beyond the olive groves and you will be thrown into it. You will die just as poor Umberto did, alone and in an agony of thirst and hunger. Once you are dead, the shaft will be filled in and no marker placed on your grave. Your burial place will be forgotten, as will you be, and, by my decree, your name will never more be spoken.”

Miles had shuddered at the cruel sentence, but had to admit it was a just one. Shortly afterwards, and before Cettina’s sentence had been carried out, he and Alan, accompanied by Father William, returned to Salerno and boarded King John’s ship for the journey home. With him the knight carried a purse of silver, given into his safekeeping by the count for Gianni, in the hope it would provide some small recompense for the terrors that had been forced upon him.

And now, once more on English soil, and glad to have put some distance between themselves and their witness of the ugliness of Cettina Sclafani’s soul, he and Alan spurred their horses towards home.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The setting for Sins of Inheritance is an authentic one. Nicolaa de la Haye was hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle during this period and her husband, Gerard Camville, was sheriff. The personalities they have been given in the story have been formed by conclusions the author has drawn from events during the reigns of King Richard I and King John.

For details of medieval Lincoln and the Order of the Knights Templar, I am much indebted to the following:

Medieval Lincoln by J.W.F. Hill (C.U.P.)

Dungeon, Fire and Sword by John J. Robinson (M. Evans and Company)

In Search of the Knights Templar by Simon Brighton (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)

The Templars by Piers Paul Read (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)