Quest of malice, p.1
Quest of Malice,
p.1
Quest of Malice
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
Sins of Inheritance
Copyright © Maureen Ash 2019
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
Principal Characters
Bascot de Marins – Templar Knight
Gianni – mute Italian lad, former servant to Bascot, now a clerk in castle
scriptorium
Nicolaa de la Haye – hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle
Gerard Camville – Nicolaa’s husband and sheriff of Lincolnshire
Richard Camville – son of Nicolaa and Gerard
In the Castle
Miles de Laxton – Knight
Roget – captain of town guard
Constance – Roget’s wife
Ernulf – serjeant of garrison
Templars
William fitzGiffard – preceptor of Lincoln commandery
Hamo – serjeant in Lincoln commandery
John Walder – stationed in Acre
Walter Turout – commander of Templar stronghold in Acre
Brother fitzWilliam – Templar knight in Acre commandery
Lincoln
Ailwin Ruffus, his sister Mary, and cousin Symon – pilgrims
William Smithson – master of blacksmith’s guild
Louth
Ranald Gernon – lord of demesne
Juliana Gernon – Ranald’s sister
Hervey Gernon – Ranald’s brother
Idla – Juliana’s maidservant
Wragby
Stedman – steward of Templar property
Thomas – wain driver
Martin and Alan – Thomas’ brothers
John Edwardson – steward of Juliana Gernon’s horse farm
Phillip Walder – John’s brother
Margery Walder – Phillip’s wife
Peter – a hermit
Boston
William Lynn – bailiff
Lud Ferger – a blacksmith
Gloucester
Hugh of Newent – Uncle to Ranald, Juliana and Hervey Gernon
Terminology
Bailiff - To avoid confusion for readers outside the UK, please note that in England there are two definitions for the word bailiff—one denotes a sheriff’s officer and the other an agent or steward—and the word has been used throughout the story in both senses as appropriate.
Also please note that spelling is British usage
Prologue
Outremer, 1205
A few miles south of Acre a party of English pilgrims, a score in number, was trudging along the road from Jerusalem towards the port to hire passage on a ship to take them home. All of them carried a staff and wore the broad-brimmed hat they had been given by the priests of their respective churches at the outset of their journey. A white pilgrim cross was sewn on the breast of their upper garments and over the shoulders of each was slung a leather bag containing extra clothing and food. It was late summer and the heat was intense, glimmering in a haze above the rocky gulley through which they were travelling, and although feeling purified by the visits they had made to various holy sites, all were now hot, dusty and tired and would be heartily thankful to reach their destination.
They were accompanied on their journey by an escort of Templar knights. The warrior monks were four in number—one riding in the van, another in the rear, and one on each side. All wore helms with nasal bars and hauberks of chain mail under flowing white surcoats emblazoned with the blood red cross of Christ. The swords at their sides were loose in their scabbards in case they should be needed and the destriers they rode also wore armour, but of boiled leather, covering the front of their heads and extending down over withers and chest.
The Templar presence was very welcome to the pilgrims; thieves abounded the area through which they were passing, bent on stealing any money or valuables travellers might be carrying, and the little band was very grateful for the monks’ protection.
It soon proved that the pilgrims’ fears had been justified for suddenly, on a deserted stretch of road through the narrow defile, the fearsome howl of infidel ululations rent the air and a party of a dozen mounted Saracens brandishing scimitars appeared ahead of them. The determined scowls on their faces were frightening as, with screams of ‘Allahu Akbar’—Allah is the Greatest—they charged, the foremost among them waving a wickedly barbed javelin above his head.
The Templars’ reaction was immediate. Issuing a terse command for the pilgrims to draw close together, they formed a line in front of them, positioning their kite-shaped shields on their shoulders and drawing their swords.
The clash lasted only a few minutes but, to the terrified pilgrims, it seemed to go on forever as the Templars stood firm, their shields forming an impenetrable barrier against the haphazard blows of the Saracens while the monks’ own blades rose and fell with trained precision, inflicting terrible damage. The air was filled with the scent of blood and the screams of horses as the Templar destriers reared and struck with sharp hooves on the smaller mounts the brigands were riding.
As suddenly as the attack had started, it also ended. While the Templars remained unscathed, five of the Saracens lay dead on the ground and the rest were forced to retreat, regrouping a hundred yards away. And there they stayed as the one carrying the javelin, and seemed to be the leader of the band, harangued them in Arabic, gesticulating wildly at the Templars and urging them to charge again. But all of his underlings shook their heads in refusal; the loss of their comrades had unmanned them and none of those remaining were willing to engage in another sortie against the deadly slashing blades of the Christian monks.
In disgust, the leader turned his back on his followers and, as they slunk away, he made one last sally towards the knights, just far enough in their direction to send the spear he was holding sailing through the air towards them before he, too, turned and rode into the shelter of the rocky cliffs at the roadside.
The javelin flew high, its passage lost in the dazzling rays of the sun. The Templars raised their shields, but the glare obscured their vision and, by extreme misfortune, it found its mark in the side of one of the Templar knights, the spiked head piercing the links in his chain mail and slicing into his vital organs. A groan of pain escaped him as he slumped forward over his saddle, critically wounded.
Two of his brothers lifted him from his horse and laid him gently on the thick dust of the roadway, then removed his surcoat and lifted his mail shirt to examine the wound. When it was revealed, it was seen to be deep and copiously welling with blood.
“The injury is mortal, I fear,” the stricken monk said to the brother kneeling beside him.
“If we can get you to Acre, and the ministrations of the preceptory leech, there might be a chance of recovery,” his companion replied.
“I think not,” was the answer. “I shall die in Christ, with all my sins forgiven, and could ask for no better end. “
*************
Later that day, a young Englishman named Hervey Gernon was approaching Acre along the same stretch of road where the skirmish had taken place. He was eighteen years of age, with blue eyes and flaxen hair. Normally of a sanguine temperament, his cheerful optimism had been brought low by a distressing situation in England and his mission in coming to the Holy Land was to find a certain Templar knight who, he had been told, was stationed at Acre, in the hope the knight would be able to aid him in resolving the difficulty. He did not, of course, have any notion that the very ground over which he now passed had, a few hours before, been the scene of a battle. There remained little evidence of the affray; the bodies of the slain brigands had been removed by their comrades as soon as the Templars left the area and the splashes of blood left behind had, by this time, soaked into the shifting dust of the roadway. But even had the young Englishman been aware of the conflict, he would never have surmised that the Templar who had sustained such a serious injury in the confrontation was the very man he was seeking—his godfather, John Walder.
The lad was, like the pilgrims, weary of travel. After a long sea voyage on a merchant ship from England he had finally arrived at Jaffa and had immediately made preparations for journeying to Acre to find his godfather. Most of the traders in the marketplace in the town spoke English due to the many pilgrims from that country who passed through the port and Hervey approached one of them to get directions to his destination.
“It’s about twenty leagues,” the man had replied. “Not a far distance if you have a mount.”
It was not beyond Hervey’s means to buy a horse to go to Acre, for he had a goodly quantity of silver secreted in a strong linen band wrapped around his waist under his clothing, but it would be expensive and he wished to conserve the funds he had. Even though it would be a long trek, he decided to walk and so bought from the merchant some food for the journey—soft white cheese, dates, figs and pieces of flat unleavened bread—but as he began
“It you are, you would be very unwise,” the merchant added. “There are many thieves along the way to Acre and they will not hesitate to rob you.” This last was said with a pointed look at the scrip—a small pouch for carrying money and other valuables—that hung from the belt around the young man’s waist.
When Hervey asked if he knew of any travellers going that way who might allow him to join them, the merchant, at first, shook his head. “Not that I can think of….but wait,” he suddenly added, pointing to an elderly man standing with two younger men alongside a small herd of goats, “old Moshe might know of someone. He’s a goat herder and he and his two sons sometimes make a trip here from their home near Zir'in to purchase additional animals in the marketplace,” he explained. “And Moshe’s a gossip,” the trader added with a smile, “knows everyone hereabouts and all of their doings. If anyone is planning to set out for Acre, he’ll be aware of it.”
The trader called to the goat herder, who also spoke English, and explained Hervey’s predicament. The elderly man gave the matter some consideration before he answered and finally said that, as far as he knew, there were not any travellers in Jaffa going to Acre at that time but, if Hervey was willing, he was welcome to come along with himself and his sons on their return journey home, which would bring him much closer to Acre than he was now, and that it might be possible to find someone on the way, or in their village, who was going to the port and willing for him to accompany them.
And so it was arranged, and Hervey was grateful for the offer. Before they left, and on Moshe’s advice, he purchased a burnoose. The long cloak and hood would not only cover his English clothes and scrip so as not to attract the attention of thieves, but also keep him warm at night when the temperature dropped significantly.
Their passage had been slow as they proceeded northward, for it was set at the pace of the goats’ need to water and graze, but it was not unpleasant. As they wended their way, Hervey, who had previously, in England, had sheep in his care and therefore had an interest in animal husbandry, learned from Moshe and his sons the nature of the animals they tended and how to care for them, including instructions on the making and throwing of a peculiar device called a balli. These were comprised of three equally weighted stones tied together with a leather thong and its primary purpose was to catch and hobble the goats when they strayed. But it was also, he was told, a useful weapon to scare off or restrain predators—jackals and hyenas and the like—and he thought it might be of great benefit in his homeland, where it could be employed by shepherds as a means of defence against the wolves that often threatened the flocks they were tending. When he saw Moshe’s younger son use it to snare a small bird in flight to provide some meat to add to the pot of boiled chickpeas that was prepared every day for the evening meal he decided it was a practical implement that could be employed in many useful ways and decided he would take one with him when he returned home.
When they reached the village where the goat herder and his sons lived, which was, as Moshe had said, a distance of about thirty miles from Acre, Hervey had continued on his way with a man from the village who, with his cousin, was taking a cart laden with a pile of the knotted carpets that their womenfolk made to a merchant who, for a commission, sold them in the marketplace at Acre. The trader’s home was just a few miles south of the port and, from there, Hervey would be within easy walking distance of his destination.
Most of the people in the goat herder’s village were Christians, as were Moshe and his family, all members of the eastern branch of the church. So, too, were the companions with whom Hervey was making the next stage of his journey; they also had some command of English and their easy affability made the short time Hervey spent with them pass swiftly. When they finally arrived at the rug merchant’s dwelling place, Hervey thanked both of them profusely for their assistance—offering a coin from his scrip as payment for their aid, which was promptly refused—and then, after walking the last few remaining miles to Acre, entered the gate and made his way to the Templar commandery on the south-western side of the port.
Once there, he approached the gateward, gave his name and said, “I have come to speak to my godfather, John Walder who, I was told, serves in this commandery. Will you please inform him I am here?”
The guard, a Templar man-at-arms, pondered the request for a moment and then motioned for Hervey to follow him through the gate and into a large compound. There the guard gave him over to a lay servant who would, he said, take Hervey to a place where he could wait while the commander of the castle was informed of his presence.
Hervey followed the lay servant across the huge open space and into a sizable building set alongside a round church. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many open doorways set around its circumference. The servant led him through one of these and up to a closed door of solid oak where he told him to remain.
It was not more than a quarter of one hour before two Templar knights appeared. One of them was an older man, with a greying beard and an air of authority, who introduced himself as Walter Turout, the commander of the fortress, and his companion as Brother fitzWilliam.
“You claim you are Brother Walder’s godson,” Turout said, “but Templar brothers are not allowed to take on the role of godparent, so how can that be?”
“I have been told that he agreed to be my godfather at a time before he joined your Order,” Hervey replied. “You can ask him, he will tell you that is the truth.”
As he finished the statement, he was struck by the possibility that the man he sought was not stationed at this commandery. “He is here, isn’t he?” he asked. “His brother in England told me that the last time he had tidings of him, he was serving in Acre.”
Turout nodded and said, “Brother Walder is here, but I fear I have unfortunate news for you regarding his wellbeing. Earlier today, he was gravely wounded in a battle with a band of infidels. It is doubtful he will recover.”
Hervey’s shoulders slumped. “I am sorry to hear that. I was too young when he joined your Order to remember him, but I was told by my father, who was his good friend, that he is a fine and honourable man. This misfortune will bring great sorrow to his family.”
Turout studied the young man in front of him for a moment. “What was your purpose in coming on such a long journey to seek him out?”
“A distressing allegation of a deed that happened many years ago, and is now impugning my family’s honour, was recently made at home in England,” Hervey replied, “and, since my parents are both dead, my godfather is the only one able to confirm or deny the charge. As I am sure you will understand, I felt it very important to discover the truth of the matter, and so I travelled here to ask my godfather’s assistance. But now that his condition is so parlous, it will be impossible for him to help me.”
The commander remained silent for a moment. Hervey had spoken as forthrightly as he dared without stating actual details and hoped it would be enough to satisfy Turout.
Apparently it was, for the commander asked no further questions but instead, and to Hervey’s surprise, said, “Brother Walder is, at the moment, conscious and may be able to speak to you. Are you prepared to wait while that is ascertained?”
“Most assuredly,” Hervey said, hope flaring in his heart.
Turout gave fitzWilliam a nod and the knight left to go through the door behind them, returning a few moments later with the information that Walder still retained enough vitality to have speech with his godson.
Following the knight back through the oaken door, Hervey found himself in a side passage filled with the odour of medicants. Further along was the open doorway of a small room through which a man could be seen lying on a pallet covered by a thick blanket and who, fitzWilliam informed him, was John Walder. The injured knight’s eyes were closed and the weathered skin of his face, above a neatly trimmed beard of a pale russet hue, was ashen in pallor. Another Templar wearing the robes of a priest sat beside him, head bowed in prayer.
