Free Death of a Squire by Maureen Ash

discomfort of the latter.”
    The agister ducked his head miserably in compliance and drank deeply from his wine cup.

    B ASCOT DID NOT SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT . T HE TEMPERATURE had dropped at nightfall and the small chamber he shared at the top of the old keep with Gianni was frigid, despite the brazier that burned in one corner. The Templar had seen the boy well wrapped in his blankets and Ernulf’s hat before snuffing the candle, but while Gianni’s breathing soon dropped into the gentle regular sound of sleep, Bascot found himself still wide awake.
    He had removed his eyepatch as soon as the chamber was in darkness and now he rubbed the empty socket, a habit he had acquired when alone and tired. The movement gave some lessening of the tension he felt and allowed a light slumber to overtake him, but it was filled with disturbing dreams and he awoke in moments, feeling the sweat that had broken out on his body chill like ice inside his clothes.
    He knew the reason for his wakefulness. After the evening meal in the hall was over, he had paid a visit to the castle chapel where Hubert’s body was laid out to rest until a relative should come to claim it. Nicolaa de la Haye had told him that a messenger had been sent to the squire’s mother—his father was dead—and the mother had sent the envoy back with news that the boy’s uncle would be coming to take her son’s body home.
    Bascot had expected to find someone, one of the other squires or a priest, keeping vigil beside the body, but the space around the bier was empty, although candles had been lit at either end only recently. Their flickering light illuminated the chamber with an eerie glow. A cloth of dark velvet had been laid over the coffin, leaving only the boy’s head and shoulders open to view, with a square of white linen spread over the face to hide the ravages of the crows. Around his neck another length of linen was loosely wound, presumably to conceal the mark of the rope that had been the instrument of his death. Against the wall, on the far side of the bier, stood a box containing the boy’s clothing, boots and dagger. Bascot lifted the items out and scrutinised them. The material of both hose and tunic was expensive, marked with stains and scrapings that could have come from rough handling before the boy was dead, or on the journey back to Lincoln slung over Tostig’s horse. His boots were in the same condition. The cloak was wool, a dark brown in colour, and was shredded at collar and hem. The fastening had been a simple silver gilt clasp and was still pinned to the fabric near the shoulder. The dagger was a well-made one, not ornate, but of good tempered steel. Surely, Bascot mused, if outlaws had been the cause of the boy’s death they would at least have taken the pin and dagger, even if they had not had time to remove his clothes.
    Finally the Templar examined Hubert’s body. The squire seemed to have been sturdily built, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles that swelled in his neck. It seemed strange that, with such strength, he had not fought his attacker. Reluctantly, Bascot removed the protective cover from the face, standing for some moments looking at what was left of Hubert’s visage. Someone, probably the castle leech, had sewn up the worst of the damage, but little was left to indicate what the boy had looked like. A soft ribbon had been bound under the jawbone and up over the top of the head to keep the mouth closed and hide the remnants of the lad’s tongue, which, Bascot guessed, the crows would have found particularly delectable. Soft circles of lead had been laid over the eyeless sockets and his hair, a vivid chestnut in colour, had been pulled down low over his forehead to hide more of the birds’ relentless feeding. Altogether there was not much left to indicate the appearance of the boy whose soul had been prematurely forced from its earthly home.
    Muttering a brief prayer and asking heaven’s forgiveness